


Seeing Is Believing

by Webhoard



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 18+, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mild Smut, Smut, Violence, my verbosity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-03 23:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Webhoard/pseuds/Webhoard
Summary: You’re a fairly new member of the Avengers with psychic visions. Bucky and you love each other, that is, love to fight with each other. When a teeny training accident brings the two of you closer, will you rip each others throats out or rip each other’s clothes off? Hmm! What could possibly happen??





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a wee break from writing Even the Smallest to resurrect this from my WIPs. I was originally going to make this a one-shot, and then I was like nah, make it 2 parts with smut….but I’m really scared this is turning into something longer, and knowing me it will. Jesus take the wheel.

You groaned into your mug of strong black tea. Your eyelids felt heavy, sticky almost, and your head was beginning to nod forward. 

“Whoa, Y/N, good morning to you,” Natasha laughed as she sauntered into the kitchen, heedless of the early hour.

“Nat, please,” you grumbled groggily. 

“Don’t forget, me and Steve are training you in self-defense this morning.” Her gentle reminder sent you into a fit of fresh low groans, your anxiety only compounding as Bucky waltzed into the kitchen with Steve in tow. “You don’t exactly look well rested. What happened?” Bucky grinned as he heard you and Natasha talking, sweeping his flesh hand through his hair, combing it up and away from his face.

“That’s because I am _not_ well rested, Nat. Casanova over there brought home a screamer last night. I didn’t get to sleep until after 3:00am.” 

Bucky chuckled from across the kitchen. Game on, apparently. Steve just rolled his eyes as Nat pressed her lips into a subdued smile. They, like the rest of the team, had become accustomed to your banter by now.

“No need to be jealous of her, doll,” Bucky smiled snidely as hit bit into an apple with an audible crunch. The man couldn’t even eat fruit without being smug.

“Eat my entire ass, Barnes,” your voice rattled, still groggy from fatigue, “I just hope that you’re using condoms when you go prowling for women.”

With another smug crunch of his apple, he responded, wiping a rouge droplet of juice from his stubbled chin, “Aw, why’s that, doll? You want me to save the goods for you?” He arched a brow suggestively at you.

That arrogant handsome bastard, “Ah ha ha. No,” your mimed laugh was devoid of all humor, “It’s just that syphilis is still a silent killer, and the last thing you or any of us need on top of all your memory problems and amnesia is a venereal disease slowly turning your brain into Swiss cheese.”

“Jesus, Y/N,” Natasha interjected in an amused but scolding tone while Bucky glowered at you, all smugness wiped from his face. Steve looked between the two of you uneasily.

“What?” You exclaimed indignantly, “Is any part of what I just said incorrect?”

Natasha looked at you flatly, “That’s not the point, and you know it.” 

Your pride was too fragile to concede at this point, however, “Well, I stand by what I said.”

Bucky finally perked back up, an irritated glint in his eyes, “Well, I may be an amnesiac, but at least I’m not some voodoo vision girl.”

Steve and Natasha just sighed at the now renewed argument. 

“Voodoo? What are you talking about? Do you know how insulting you’re being to practitioners of the religion?” You knew that an ad hominem attack wasn’t exactly a mature debate tactic, but again, your pride was whispering for retribution.

Bucky scoffed, “Oh, that’s rich, we wouldn’t want to insult anyone right now, this coming from you who just called me an amnesiac with syphilis.” 

The rational part of your brain was screaming for you to stop, engage in civil conversation, and to come to a place of compromise. Yeah, that part of your brain could fuck right off, your id was winning out. “Alright man, you want voodoo? Then let’s go right now. I’ll make a doll out of you.”

Bucky lurched forward from his spot along the counter, more than ready to engage in this war of words, as you lifted yourself out of your seat. But Steve, ever the peace maker between you both, wedged himself between the two of you, hands extended on either side.

“Whoa whoa whoa! Nobody is making a voodoo doll out of anyone.” He looked at you both warningly, “C’mon guys, it’s only 8:00 in the morning. Can’t you save the fighting for a more reasonable hour?” How his words would come back to haunt him.

You were staring down Bucky in what you hoped was an intimidating manner while he glared right back.

He huffed, throwing his apple core in the compost bin, “Whatever. S’not even worth my time.”

You watched as he stalked toward the elevator, childishly miming his words under your breath.

With Bucky now gone from the kitchen, you slowly relaxed, and the tension began to dissipate from the room as you reclaimed your seat in front of your now tepid tea.

“Alright, Y/N!” Steve’s voice broke through the awkward silence of the room, “Are you ready for your self-defense lesson today?” Steve clapped you on the shoulder with such strength that it propelled you forward in your seat slightly. How could he be so exuberant about sparring?

“Is ‘no’ an acceptable answer?” You smiled waiting for his response, which you knew would contradict himself.

He just shook his head and said, “No,” he then clarified seeing your face light up, “unless the ‘no’ comes from me.”

“Nice save there, Steve.” You smiled into your mug. “I’ll meet you in the training room in a bit, just finishing my tea first.”

He gave you a mock look of stern expectation, “Don’t be late or I’ll have you running laps.”

“I’m shaking in my shoes,” you snorted into your tea.

Part of you was touched that Steve and Natasha were concerned for your wellbeing and safety and wanted you to know how to defend yourself, and the other, louder, part of you wanted nothing more than to hide in your room rather than to make an ass of yourself in front of everyone training in the gym because you were certain of one thing. You were about to get your ass handed to you. 

Even though Natasha had been teaching you different attacks and defense sequences for a couple weeks, you had no experience in actual fighting or sparring, not unless one counted those aerobic kickboxing classes your mother had enrolled in you when you were a teen and the rape defense class you’d taken about a year ago. Steve and Natasha, on the other hand, were veritable gods, fighting machines, indestructible bodies with lightning fast reflexes and poise. Yesterday you had tripped over your slippers while getting into bed. Thank the gods it had been a soft landing.

With a sigh, you reluctantly heaved yourself from your chair, rinsed out your mug in the kitchen sink, and slumped your way to the elevators that would deliver you to the training facilities.

As the elevator hummed its way past floor after floor, you couldn’t help but marvel at the recent changes in your life. You were not a superhero, nor did you have enhanced strength or physical abilities. Ok, there was the whole ‘psychic premonitions’ gift that had earned you your honorary place among the Avengers. It was helpful for the Avengers to get insight into fights and missions before they even began, making you invaluable to the team. But your body was still as limited in its abilities as any other average shmoe’s. How on earth were you supposed to enter into a sparring ring against Natasha or Steve with a straight face?

When the elevator doors finally opened to the training facility with a ping, you took stock of your surroundings. Bucky and Sam were bickering good heartedly in the corner with the free weights, and Steve and Natasha were ‘warming up’ on the sparring mats. Of course, their idea of warming up looked more like a scene from a Jackie Chan movie than anything else. Other than that, the training room was empty save for one lone agent running on a treadmill with her earbuds in and facing away from the sparring mats. At least you’d only have a small crowd to witness your shame. But it was just your luck that Bucky had to be in that small crowd. 

Your eyes drifted again to his form.

His sweatpants were hanging low on his hips and his t-shirt was tugging across his muscled chest and back. His normally unruly long locks were tucked away beneath a backwards ball cap. And his cheekbones looked positively sinful under the fluorescent lighting. Your mind seemed to short circuit for a brief moment before you could shake yourself from the distraction as you made your way over to Natasha and Steve. Bucky may have been a bastard who’d never warmed up to you, but he was a handsome bastard, and there was no denying that fact, and maybe it was that fact that made his animosity sting that much more.

Natasha, who had noticed your staring, just smirked knowingly before going back to sparring. As far as you knew, she was the only one of the team who’d worked that underneath your apparent disgust for Bucky, you were deeply attracted to him. She was convinced there was more to it than physical attraction, but you always brushed off her analyses, stating that it was perfectly normal to hate someone and still think they were hot.

Steve, seeing you walk up, smiled and said loudly, enough to get Sam and Bucky’s attention, “Y/N, you’re here!”

You closed your eyes in an exasperated and self-soothing manner, “Yes, I am here and ready for my ass kicking.” If you made fun of yourself first, it would theoretically make it that much harder and lamer for Bucky to attempt it later, right?

Steve just smiled, shaking his head at you. “Okay, why don’t you warm up with Natasha and go through some of the moves you’ve been practicing,” he always looked so damned earnest when slipping into his ‘Captain’ mode. “I’m going to watch and see if there are any adjustments that we might want to make to your form and landings before we get started with the real sparring.”

You swallowed the nervous lump in your throat as you began wrapping your hands. Bucky and Sam, seeming to have finished with the weights were now getting started sparring on an adjacent mat. Great. Fucking perfect.

You and Natasha then began going through a series of attacks and defenses slowly, adjusting per Steve’s corrections as needed. And all the while, you used every free shred of your mental capabilities to block out the fact that Sam and Bucky had ceased their sparring in favor of watching what was no doubt an absolute shit show. 

It wasn’t like you to be this self-conscious, but you were out of your comfort zone. Had you been going toe-to-toe with Natasha in competitive knitting or book reading, you’d be confidently winning, instead of awkwardly stumbling your way through these defensive moves and attacks. Steve continued to shout out words of improvement and encouragement the whole time, with Sam offering you an occasional ‘atta girl.’ Bucky just stood silently, appraisingly. 

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of going back and forth across the mat with Natasha, parrying her attacks and launching several of your own in slow methodical steps, Steve called the two of you over to the side. You were out of breath, and the first beads of sweat were beginning to form on your upper lip and along your hairline, and you knew you probably look like a mess. Natasha, of course, looked like she just stepped off a runway. Sigh. You pointedly avoided looking at Bucky as you made your way over, offering Sam a thankful smile instead.

“Okay, Y/N. Are you ready to put some of these steps into practice?” Steve asked, handing you a water bottle.

You smiled as you gulped down the refreshing liquid, “Well, that was the whole reason for calling me in here this morning, wasn’t it?”

Steve rolled his eyes, “No need to get sassy.”

You laughed through your nose, trying to not choke on your water.

“I think what I’d like to see is how you react and defend yourself in a more realistic setting.” Steve was addressing you, as well as the others, “So, let’s drop the formality of these steps and see how you would do in a real fight. Sound good?” 

“Okay, but please, for the love of god, don’t hit me too hard. I am weak and unlikely to ever actually need to use any of this in real life.” You smiled, only halfway joking.

Steve, however, was not amused. “Now, Y/N, you don’t know that. Every time you walk outside the tower, you are putting yourself at risk, and you need to be able to defend yourself. Your visions make you vulnerable to enemies of the Avengers.”

You almost laughed at how sincere Steve sounded, but you bit it back not wanting to hurt or antagonize him more than your words would, “Geez, calm down you freak. I walk alone all the time. My red riding hood acts as a talisman against wolves.”

Steve just sighed, “Well, then let’s see how you would protect yourself if someone attacked you while walking down the street without your hood.” A glint came into his eyes that suddenly made you uneasy and suspicious. “Statistically, you’re unlikely to be attacked by a woman, so let’s see how you do against an attack from one of us guys.” 

You definitely had a bad feeling about this, so you cut in, “Great, well Steve, let’s get started. Or I can spar with Sam instead, for that matter.”

A small grin flashed across Steve’s face for a fraction of a second before he responded, “Actually, Bucky, I’d like you to be her sparring partn—”

“WHAT?!” Yours and Bucky’s outbursts cut off Steve’s sentence as you both began pleading with Steve in tandem.

“This asshole hates me! He’s gonna fuckin’ cheat and beat the sh—”  
“If you think for a second I’m gonna let her anywhere near me—”

“Hey hey! Enough you two!” Steve shouted over the din. Even the agent who had been blasting her earbuds cast a wary glance over her shoulder at the cacophony of voices. “Look, you two need to learn how to work together. Now’s as good a time as any. I know that neither of you will go easy on the other, so this is actually about as realistic as it can get. You got a problem, then you can take it up with Tony.”

Taking it up with Tony would inevitably mean weeks of teasing, which actually sounded worse than ten minutes of sparring with Bucky. You nodded unsmilingly at Steve and then looked flatly at Bucky to see him reluctantly agreeing as well.

“Okay, Y/N, I want to you walk across the mat as if you were walking down the street. Just act normal” Steve shifted his gaze from you, “And Bucky, I want you to come up from behind and put Y/N in a choke hold, and Y/N, you’ll need to use what you’ve learned so far to get out of the hold.” His eyes traced between the two of you, “Understood?”

“Got it, Cap,” you grumbled as you walked onto the mat, hearing Bucky grumble in kind.

“Okay, now, Y/N, walk down the street, and Bucky will attack you from behind,” came Steve’s voice from your side. 

You jerked your head around, “What street? There’s just the gym mats.” So you were being a little petulant, but this was bullshit.

Steve just narrowed his eyes wearily, “You know exactly what I mean. Walk forward in a straight line.”

“Alright, alright. Keep your pants on!” You gave Steve a cheeky grin at which he shook his head. Natasha just cocked a brow knowingly. Getting this close to Bucky was going to be trying on so many levels. 

You began to walk forward with an exaggerated jaunty step.

“Cut the shit,” Steve’s voice warned.

“Yeah, yeah!” You bit back, falling into a normal gait.

You heard the shuffling of Bucky’s feet coming from behind you and your fight or flight response took control. Now, just because you had no fighting experience, it did not mean that you had no fighting _instinct_. When faced with decision between fight or flight, your reflex was to throw fists and limbs first and ask questions later. Your adrenaline was already up from the exercise, and now hearing someone come up from behind sent it and you over the edge.

By the time you felt the heat of his body on your back, every nerve in your body felt like rubber bands pulled to their limit. When a warm arm wrapped around the front of your throat and was locked in place by an icy metal one from behind, the bands snapped. 

It all happened so fast that your mind could hardly keep up with the actions your body was autonomously carrying out. You jerked your head back, and it collided with Bucky’s nose, causing his grip to loosen just enough for your next move. You rotated your body until you were able to slam your elbow, with all the strength you possessed, directly into Bucky’s groin.

You heard a loud groan, followed by a slackening of Bucky’s choke hold as he fell backward while you pulled your posture upright, swinging around in a defensive stance. 

Sam’s side-splitting laughter soon overtook your surroundings as your eyes locked on Bucky’s prone form, curled into the fetal position on the ground, moaning in pain.

“Oh shit, what happened?” You yelled out in sudden concern.

Natasha huffed out through a smile she was desperately fighting, “I think you ensured that Bucky’s never having children.”

The full impact of the scene finally became clear to you. Bucky was on the ground, clutching at his crotch, whining in pain; Sam was laughing and leaning heavily on Steve to remain upright; and Steve’s brow was furrowed in that indescribable fashion, the way it always gets when he’s faced with a situation he doesn’t know how to react to.

“Shit, Barnes!” You yelled out, your immediate concern from causing an injury outweighing your animosity toward the man.

Bucky spat out between gasps, “What the fuck, Y/N? What the fuck?”

You were horrified, and Sam was still laughing, “Oh hell! I thought you were wearing a cup or your junk was made of steel?” You knew that last bit wasn’t entirely necessary, but you were flustered, and the word vomit took over.

By now, Natasha had pulled out her phone and was presumably recording everything as Bucky rose onto shaky legs, catching his breath.

His gaze immediately locked onto you, “What was that? Why the hell would you do that?”

Your shock and worry quickly faded into an indignant defensiveness as you practically shouted, “Are you serious, look at me.” You cast your hand over your form like a self-deprecating Vanna White, “I have no fighting experience. I will never not go straight for the testicles, and can you blame me? Look at you. I won.”

Bucky scoffed and stepped forward before doubling over yet again, as a fresh wave of pain hit him, “Oh god, I think I’m gonna throw up.” His hands once again cradled around his groin, eliciting a fresh wave of throaty laughter from Sam.

Sam managed to pant out between laughs, “She doesn’t need a voodoo doll. All she needs is to attack the jewels!” Great, he’d heard about the breakfast argument, and he definitely wasn’t helping matters with his goading.

You looked to Steve pleadingly, who gave you an open mouthed look of helplessness.

You pointed at him, resolving to alleviate some of the guilt that you were reluctantly experiencing, “This is your fault, Steve. You wanted us to pair up, and now look at what happened.”

“My fault?” He bit back, “I never told you to throw an elbow to Bucky’s crotch.”

“Yeah? Well fuck you both,” came Bucky’s pained voice, still doubled over.

Natasha was still filming and looking on with one of her small amused smiles, “YouTube gold right here.”

If ever there were a time when your life began to resemble an episode of _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia_ , that time was now.

You stepped away from the mat, keeping your gaze locked on your feet and your mouth shut with determination, your pride somehow hurting as much as Bucky’s groin. Eventually, Steve got Sam’s laughter corralled and convinced Natasha to turn off the camera on her phone before he got Bucky on his feet and walked him to the elevator presumably to recover in the privacy of his room.

When it was clear that sparring was decidedly off the table for the remainder of the morning’s training session, you quietly crept into to corner to do some free weights and jog on the treadmill for a while, working out more as a release for your pent up anxiety and adrenaline than from some desire to get in shape. Finally, after sufficiently wearing yourself out, you gave a quiet nod to Natasha and Steve, who had returned to the gym at some point, before escaping back up to the sanctuary of your quarters.

* * *

Lunch, then dinner both came and passed, and you’d seen neither hide nor hair of Bucky. Part of you felt guilty about what you’d done, and the other part of you just accepted that minor injuries happened all time during training sessions, that it was a natural consequence of pitting agents and soldiers against each other in a sparring match.

The compound was quiet that evening as everyone seemed to be off doing their own thing. With nothing and no one to distract you or your thoughts, you settled on what you hoped was an appropriate course of action. 

You went into the shared kitchen and retrieved an ice pack from the freezer. On a whim, you then reached into the fridge and grabbed out two beers before making your way to Bucky’s quarters, intent on apologizing for this morning and making peace with him, for the time being anyway.

You took a steadying breath as you juggled the beer bottles and ice pack into one hand so that you could knock with the other. The clanging of glass apparently did not go unnoticed, and by the time you were poised and ready to knock, the door opened before you, revealing a slightly disgruntled looking Bucky. 

“Y/N, what do you want?” He asked, clearly unamused by your presence at his door.

You bit back any number of sarcastic and argumentative replies that ran through your head. Calmly, Y/N, you mentally chastised as you took a deep breath. “Um, I came to apologize about this morning. So, I’m sorry, for everything,” you looked up at him cautiously, “Oh, and I, uh, I wanted to bring you these?” You held up the beers and the ice pack.

When he just looked at your flatly, you continued, “I, uhm, it’s an ice pack, y’know, for your penis. And a couple beers for, whatever.”

He rolled his eyes, but an unbidden smile tugged at his mouth.

You thought you might press your luck and added, “I would just hate to see to see you losing stamina with the ladies, so here.” You held out the items more insistently, “Can you just take the ice pack and beer so I’ll feel like less of a jackass? Please?”

There was an unreadable look in his eyes, which was unusual, given that his eyes were usually so expressive. He took the beers in one hand and the ice pack with the other, wavering slightly before opening the door and gesturing you to enter, “Do you want one of these? Super-soldier or not, I don’t think I need two beers just to myself.”

Bucky was being polite? Stranger things had happened. You just gave him a meek look and squeezed past him into his room. 

You’d never actually seen his room before, and you took a moment to let your eyes scan what lay before you. It was a similar layout to yours, but whereas your room was a study in organized chaos, books and papers and crafts littering every horizontal surface, Bucky’s room was spartan, devoid of excess or decoration. The one defining feature of his personal space were the dozens plain backed books scattered around the room that you suspected were journals.

You turned to see him examining you as you examined his room, an almost worried or expectant look in his face. You gave him a tight lipped smile and moved to sit on his desk chair.

Just as you were about to sit down, a realization hit you, “Oh. I forgot to bring a church key. I’ll just go—”

“S’okay, doll. I got it.” And just like that, he pulled the caps off the bottles with his metal fingers as if it were nothing.

“Right, duh. Metal hand.” You reached over and took your bottle before reclaiming your seat at his desk.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his bottle to you. You raised yours and mumbled out a toast.

The both of you sat in an awkward silence for several minutes, sipping on your beers in the absence of something better to do or say.

When you noticed that the ice pack was sitting unused at Bucky’s side, you broke the silence. “You’re not using the ice pack? I can leave if you want, I dunno, privacy or something.”

Bucky laughed softly through his nose and looked up at you with an expression that made your brain short circuit as it had done so many times before, “I don’t really need it, but thanks for the gesture all the same. You packed a hell of a punch, I’ll give you that, but I’m pretty resilient.”

You nodded and took another long swig of your beer as you both fell into silence again. Should you say something? What would you even talk about? Hey, sorry I almost broke your penis and that we’ve never done anything besides arguing, but the stock market has just been crazy lately, hasn’t it? Yeah, maybe silence was better than you attempting small talk.

Bucky, however, seemed slightly more capable of conversation than you. “So, where did you learn to get out of a choke hold like that? I have to admit, you caught me off guard.”

You took a few seconds to find your words, “Oh, I took a rape defense class a year ago. The instructor was bit intense, but she said we should always go for the testicles when possible. It is kind of your weakest link.”

Bucky chuckled softly, “Yeah, I guess you could say that again. I thought for a while that I honest-to-god was going to throw up on the mat.”

You found yourself smiling and laughing back, which was an unusual position to find yourself in seeing as how you and Bucky had never actually laughed together before. But you had to admit, it was kind of nice.

You wanted to use this moment of ceasefire to maybe try to finally make peace, to apologize for always fighting and begin to make amends with him, but you were denied that chance. 

All of sudden, your hearing went fuzzy and your senses began to dull as though you were submerged under water. You could feel a dull ache setting in around your whole head. 

In the next moment, your senses, which had been momentarily dulled, sprang to life in hyper vivid detail. You could feel hot skin rubbing against your bare body. Breathy moans surrounded you, engulfed you; some of them were your own. Your lips were tracing down the side of a stubbled chin as two hands massaged circles above your hips and along your ribs. The contrast of searing warmth and cold sent shivers of desire through your body. You could smell him, taste him, feel him, and you wanted more. Your breath came in gasps as he called your name again and again and…

The sounds, sights, and sensations faded as Bucky’s room came back into focus.

“Welcome back,” he remarked, looking up from his phone. 

Shitshitshit. You tried to take a few calming breaths, willfully ignoring the wetness that was forming in your underwear. Your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest.

He took a sip of his beer before looking at you expectantly. “Well? What did you see? Do we need to call the team together for a meeting?”

“What?” You startled at being addressed again. “Oh, I’m fine. I mean, we’re all fine. No need to call a meeting. All I saw was some old lady crocheting in her rocking chair. What a dumb vision, huh?” You could hear that your voice was just a tad too loud, so you cleared your throat in an attempt to calm your nerves.

Bucky just looked at you warily, “Ok? You seem a bit flustered. Are you sure that’s all you saw?”

Your eyes widened a little, “Oh, yeah. Just, umm, I gotta pee.” And with that you practically leapt from the chair, wrenched his door open, sped down the hall to your room beer still in hand.

What the hell was that? Why did you have a vision of a hot and heavy make out session with Bucky? And if your visions always came true…then…

You chugged the rest of your beer in three seconds flat before leaping onto your bed face first and screaming into your pillow with all your might. What. The. Fuck.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, I have no fucking idea where this fic is going. I also have not written and published straight people smut since I was like 20?? Please give me validation.
> 
> And for people who’ve read my Uhura series, yeah, I’m kinda I realizing now that they’re pretty similar…. Whatever. It’ll be a glorious mess. 
> 
> Prospectively, new parts will be posted Fridays at 12:30pm CST.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a bit more backstory for the reader’s visions in this part, so hurray! Also, sorry this took a little longer to come out than promised. My muse is a fickle thing, but she finally came back to me. I usually like to sit on a fic for more than a day before editing and yet another before posting, but I wanted to get this out today…so there might be a shit ton of typos. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Seven days. Seven days, four hours, and twenty-six minutes to be exact. That was how long it had been since your vision that evening in Bucky’s room. That was how long you had been avoiding Bucky as if he really were a syphilitic soldier. That was how long you had been reliving the vision in your dreams. That was how long you’d been waking up sweating, heart beating, and gasping for air and taking cold showers to calm your increasingly agitated libido. 

At the moment, you were fighting insomnia and enjoying some late night solitude in the tower, holed up in the TV room binge watching episodes of _Angel_ on the DVR. After all, Cordelia Chase, Ms. Vision Girl herself, was something like a patroness saint to you. She, like you, was very much human and susceptible to human frailty but managed to use her visions for something good, even if the fighting was done by others more capable than her.

With a weary sigh, you rubbed at your eyes, willing them to become heavy and sleepy, but your efforts were futile. You were very much awake, and that was not likely to change any time soon. And this time it actually wasn’t because Bucky had brought a woman home, disturbing the peace of your room and your slumber; it was that Bucky had yet again awoken you from within your dreams, running his stubbled cheeks up and further up the inside of your thigh. Just a dream, just a dream, you repeatedly reminded yourself.

In fact, since last week’s ‘incident,’ Bucky hadn’t brought a single woman home, not that he was one of those chronically misogynist ‘another day, another woman’ kind of men. But his current wave of celibacy had, for whatever reason, seemed to have caught your attention and your curiosity. You ruefully wondered if he were still sore from your elbow. 

A small selfish sliver of you, which you tried to keep buried under several layers of denial, was actually a little glad that he was staying solo for the time being. But no matter how much denial you were dealing with, you couldn’t hide those twinges of jealousy from yourself on all those occasions when Bucky had brought a woman to the tower in the past. But it was best to not dwell on thoughts like that, especially because every time you did, you were assailed by memories of your vision, which you could still see, smell, hear, feel, and taste as if it were happening live.

You watched with rapt attention as Cordelia was hit with a vision that sent her falling to the ground and clutching her head in abject agony. You were glad that your visions had never been like hers, that a slight wave of pain around your head was the only negative symptom that resulted from them. Instead of screaming in pain, you knew from videos of yourself that your visions made you look more like a spaced out teenager in a morning class than a woman with The Sight. But you were a touch jealous of Cordelia. She knew her visions came from the mysterious ‘Powers That Be,’ knew why she got them, and had a clear purpose and duty to fulfill from the beginning.

You, on the other hand, had spent half a lifetime hiding your ability because the few times you had been open about it had resulted in erroneous diagnoses ranging from schizophrenia to various drug addictions, and at one time had landed you in a 72-hour lock up at a mental hospital for observation. Now at least, among the Avengers, you were finally in a place where you could use your visions for good and where you free to talk about them without fear of reprisal or judgement…except for your last one with Bucky, that is.

And the one thing that you were haunted and dogged by the most was the fact that never in your life had you had a vision that hadn’t come to pass. This left you with the inevitable conclusion that at some point in the near future you…and Bucky…would…NOPE. Watch the goddamned show!

* * *

Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the floor, the sounds of shuffling sheets and low groans permeated the silence of Bucky’s room. A sheen of sweat had accumulated on his forehead, causing his hair to stick to his skin in long sticky strands. His hands were balled into fists, the nails of his right hand digging into his palm as the metal hand whirred and creaked under the pressure. From the depths of his nightmare a gunshot rang out as his finger pulled the trigger, and he awoke with a violent start, chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

With wild eyes, he quickly took stock of his surroundings. Bed. Desk. Journals. Door. His room. The tower. He was in the tower. Not a bunker. Not Siberia. Safe. He was safe. Dream. It was just a dream.

His heart rate began to normalize, and his tensed muscles began to relax as he dropped his head forward into his hands, rubbing vigorously at his eyes and massaging his temples. With a weary sigh, he heaved himself from his knotted sheets and shuffled into his bathroom. After a few splashes of cold water on his face, Bucky was finally starting to feel properly calm. And with his mind no longer occupied with the task of coming down from his nightmare, it had the space to begin spiraling into thoughts of regret and remorse. 

He tried to block the image of those frightened eyes from his mind and the way they had squeezed shut before he pulled the trigger. He let out a gravelly cry as he slammed his fists onto the bathroom counter, cracking the granite surface not for the first time.

He stalked out of his bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen determined to get his hands on some of that Asgardian liquor Thor had brought on his last visit, desperate for the sweet inebriation it promised. A tumbler with a generous pour in one hand, he made his way down the short hall to the TV room, hoping that the mindless late-night infomercials might help him get back to sleep.

As he neared the doorway, however, he could see the flashing blue light reflected on the floor and walls of the hallway and the soft sounds of fighting and the clanging of swords filtering through the quiet corner of the tower. He rounded the corner, and his heart gave a slight jump and flip.

It was you. You were on one of the couches in a baggy sweatshirt and ratty pajama bottoms, watching the action on the screen with rapt attention, a mostly empty bottle of beer hanging languidly from your fingers over the armrest. The light from the TV illuminated your face with an unearthly glow, making you resemble the ethereal being he’d always seen you as.

Bucky silently backed out of the room and down the hall a little before retracing his steps with a more heavy footfall and a clearing of his throat to alert you of his presence as he reentered the TV room. This time his eyes found yours, which were filled with surprise. He chewed on his lip nervously, suppressing a fleeting worry that you might bolt from the room as you had done every day for the past week. Was it possible to miss someone with whom he only ever argued and bickered? Yes, apparently, as was evidenced by the relief that washed through him when you nervously returned your attention to the TV but remained in your seat.

“You gonna stand there all night, or come sit down like a normal person?” You asked without looking from the screen, surprised that you had actually managed to speak to him in an almost calm voice.

Bucky shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “Do you mind? I don’t want to interrupt you.”

You scoffed, ignoring the jackhammer in your chest, “Since when has that ever stopped you before?”

Bucky smirked in spite of himself, “Point taken.” He walked hurriedly across the screen before settling himself down on the opposite end of the couch and taking a long pull of the honeyed liquor.

Meanwhile, you were sitting in your spot, wishing you’d gotten something stronger than beer and trying your damnedest to take calm, measured breaths as unsolicited images and sensations from your vision flitted through mind.

After seven days of avoiding Bucky, you were now sitting on the same couch, little more than a few feet from him, as the TV played on. You were itching for some air.

You downed the last sip from your bottle and got up. “I, uh, need a refill.” You mumbled, feeling awkward at your need to announce your departure.

In a lot of ways, you felt like a complete jackass for avoiding Bucky. And yet, here you were, a grown ass woman sneaking around like a teenager who just got caught watching porn, not that that was too far from the truth. 

You gulped down a full glass of water to somehow justify getting another drink. You knew that the absolute last thing you needed was to have more alcohol, especially at such a late hour, but desperate times called for desperate, albeit unhealthy, measures. You grabbed a tumbler from the cupboard and gave yourself a generous pour from one of Tony’s fancy bottles of Scotch. 

For a few seconds, you considered going back to your room and watching TV on your bed in the privacy and sanctuary of your own space. But for all your urges to run away from Bucky and the images he brought to mind, there was a part of you that felt compelled to go to him. After all, you’d always found him attractive, and who were you to argue with fate, right?

You took a deep swallow of the smoky whisky before setting back to the TV room. Bucky was still seated on his end of the couch, though he now seemed to be taking up more room than before. Manspreader. In the dim blue light from the television, you could see the dark, unhealthy shadows under and around his eyes. For all your disputes and all his bravado around the tower, you knew that underneath it all, he was a haunted man.

“You gonna stand there all night, doll?” He echoed your words from earlier. 

An unbidden smile crept onto your lips as you quietly walked over and reclaimed your seat. You turned and stole a glance at Bucky’s profile. He was now intently watching the show, so you took a moment longer than wise to examine the slope of his nose and the way his eyes focused with such sincerity on the screen.

As the TV turned to a commercial break, you were about to reach for the remote to fast forward through the ads, but Bucky’s voice stilled your hand momentarily. 

“What show is this?” He turned to look at you. 

You left the remote where it was and let the ad play on. “It’s called  _Angel_. It’s a spinoff of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. It’s not as good, in my opinion, but I like Cordelia, and the actor who plays Angel isn’t bad to look at either.”

He laughed softly at that last bit. “That’s the main character?” 

You nodded. 

“What’s his story?”

You took a few moments to gather your thoughts. In truth, Angel’s backstory was not all that different from Bucky’s. They’d both been made into monsters whose bloody legacies were now the stuff of legends. And both had regained their autonomous souls only to be tortured by memories the atrocities they committed by no conscious choice of their own.

“Well, he’s a vampire, but he was given a curse that gave him back his soul. In his heyday, he was the baddest bad. So now that he’s got his soul, as well as his conscience, back, he’s atoning for all the damage he caused in his past by saving people.” You could see Bucky shift a little in his seat, so you added, “He’s the hero of the show. A bit broody, granted, but he’s saved the world like at least three times probably.”

“Why does he need to atone?” Bucky’s voice was soft.

You couldn’t help but feel compassion for him at the moment. “He was a vampire with no soul before this. He killed thousands of people over the course of his long life, so now he’s trying to help the future since he can never change the past.”

There were several long moments of silence as Bucky seemed to lose himself in his thoughts. You felt compelled to say something, “I’ve always been a fan of the series. Cordelia is a seer, like me, except my visions don’t hurt me like they do her. Also, I’m not nearly as outgoing as she is, or fashionable, or…well, you probably don’t care about all that.” You sort of trailed off.

“You think I don’t care?” Bucky’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. 

You had no idea how to respond to that genuinely. Of course, he wouldn’t care. All you and he ever did was argue. You scoffed, and said what came to mind, “Why should you? It’s not like you and I are BFFs.”

Bucky laughed through his nose humorlessly, “Be that as it may, it doesn’t mean we have to be enemies.” He almost couldn’t believe himself. Was he really trying to make amends here in the dark hours of the morning? While you both attempted to drink away your insomnia and watch a show that seemed to hit awfully close to home for you both? Of all the shit ideas he’d come up with, he was pretty sure that this one took the cake.

You let his statement hang in the air, unsure how to respond even sarcastically.

Sensing your uncertainty, he decided to change tack, “Seems like you and I have a lot in common with this show. These two characters seem to really like each other, so it’s just shame that you and I don’t.”

While part of you was shocked at such an admission from him, the other more stubborn and childish part of you was galled. You snorted with irritation, “Well, that’s on you, not me.”

Bucky squinted his eyes, “Me? What did I do? If anyone’s to blame it’s you.”

Okay, whatever moment you two might have been having and whatever awkwardness you had felt with him for the past week both vaporized. The gloves were coming off. “How is any of our animosity my fault? When I first got here, I was so nice to you, and I hate being nice to anyone.” 

“Nice? You ignored me. In what world is that considered being nice?” Bucky was mystified by your claim.

And you too were miffed by his rebuttal, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was giving you space. Steve said you were uncomfortable around new people, so I was trying to respect your need for that space.”

Bucky scoffed slightly, but you could see a hint of surprise in his eyes at your words. 

“Then when I tried to finally talk with you, you still ignored me!” Once you started on this vein, you found that the words would not stop. Months and months of pent up resentment and anger were all of a sudden flooding out. “At first, I thought ‘hmm, maybe he just needs more time,’ but then I started noticing how conversational you were with people you knew even less than me, like Maria Hill or that prick, Everett Ross, or, y’know, all the women you brought home hours after meeting them. And I realized that you were nice to everybody but me, that you liked everyone but me. So don’t try to blame me for the fact that all we ever do is fight. I think I was pretty justified in no longer holding back my sarcasm around you, and sorry not sorry that you don’t know how to take it.” You took a few calming breaths before taking a large swig of your Scotch, almost choking on the peaty burn.

There was still a frown on Bucky’s face, but he was now staring down into his lap instead of glaring at you. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking in a half whisper, “I’ve never actually hated or even disliked you.”

“Then why were you always so cold?” You bit back.

He looked up from his lap to your face, eyes squinted and brows lightly creased, holding your gaze for a long moment. “You were right. I am not good at meeting people. I am not good at talking to people and opening myself up.”

That didn’t quite jive with your observations though, “So what about Ross? How can you be nicer to him than me? He tried to have you locked away!”

He sighed out a humorless laugh, “He doesn’t matter to me. It’s easy to pretend when you don’t care.” Seeing your perplexed look, he elaborated, “I wanted to open up to you, but, I dunno, I guess I was worried that you wouldn’t want to get to know me, so I clammed up. Then you when you started in with the sarcasm and jabs, I couldn’t help but argue back.”

You were surprised by his version of events, but still not completely satisfied. “Well, why couldn’t you just try to talk to me? I don’t get it.”

He scoffed, “I just said. I don’t care if Ross or any of those women like me, so I don’t care about opening up to them superficially. I was worried that you wouldn’t like me, so I just kept my mouth shut, and by the time I wanted to reach out, you started acting rude to me.”

It was your turn to scoff, “Oh, okay. It’s all my fault. I should have continued being nice to someone who from my point of view didn’t give a shit about me. Got it.” 

Bucky’s mouth turned upward slightly, “Hey, you said it, not me. Your fault.”

You released an irritated laugh at his apparent teasing, “Ass.”

“I won’t argue with that.” 

Even though the air between you two seemed to have cleared in the light of your first honest conversation, you soon fell into an uncomfortable silence as you both tried to watch the short infomercial for grout cleaner with feigned interest.

From Bucky’s part, he was busy worrying that the Asgardian liquor had made him say too much, reveal too much of himself and his inner feelings. On top of that he felt an unsettling guilt wash over him for every woman he’d ever picked up at a club or a bar with sweet words and promises he hadn’t intended on ever keeping. Even more, he regretted that more often than not, he looked for women who looked like you.

Simultaneously on your end of the couch, you were stuck on one thought like a broken record skipping back to the beginning of the thought right at the moment you came close to completing it. Bucky had been your antagonist in the tower. You had a vision of you and he in a very intimate moment. Now, here you were, sitting on the couch watching commercials you could easily fast forward with the man himself after coming to a sort ceasefire. And all of this meant…what?

And still the ad for the grout cleaner played on, seeming to mock you both in your private moments of apprehension.

Bucky couldn’t take the silence any longer, so he abruptly asked, “What are you doing up anyway?”

“Huh?” You hummed, still slightly stuck in your thoughts.

“It’s almost three in the morning. You couldn’t sleep?” 

You sputtered slightly into your Scotch, causing your lips to burn slightly. Your heart sputtered in kind, and you could feel your face, neck, and body warming. You obviously couldn’t tell him you’d dreamt about your R-rated vision with him.

“I, uhm, well, I couldn’t sleep because…” You paused between almost every nonsensical syllable, lamely concluding, “because I had a bad dream.” You hoped he was taking your hesitancy as a sign of discomfort rather than as a sign that you were lying, very poorly.

He seemed to take you at your word, adding somberly, “Yeah. A lot of that going around.”

Oh shit. You could have slapped yourself for bringing up bad dreams around him. “Nightmare?” You asked in a soft cautious tone.

He looked at you from the corner of his eyes, “Something like that.” 

He didn’t seem to want to elaborate further, so you let it drop as you both fell once again into an awkward silence.

“If you don’t mind, what are your nightmares about?” He asked out of the blue, startling you.

You took a moment to think it over and opted for the honest answer, assuming that he might be looking for some sense of solidarity. “My visions mostly.” You sighed and took the last sip of your Scotch, setting your glass on the coffee table in front of you. “Sometimes I see things that seem completely dumb and pointless, like a delivery man, who I’ve seen quite a few times I might add, mispronouncing Tony’s last name as Stank instead of Stark. Don’t tell him I told you about that!” 

Bucky was quietly laughing, “I won’t say it was you, but he’s never going to hear the end of it from me. Guaranteed. Stank.” 

You shook your head before your smile dropped as you continued, “But other times, I see some pretty awful stuff. Like last month when I saw that fight between the Yakuza and the Kitchen Irish gangs?” Your mind suddenly went to a darker place, “I still dream about that one sometimes, can still smell the sickly coppery scent of the blood hanging in the air.” You were almost as surprised as Bucky was at your confession. You’d never really talked about the emotional toll your visions had on you with anyone on the team before, let alone him. “S’not why I’m up tonight though, so I’m good.” You added lamely.

Bucky didn’t push you further but instead added, his face drawn, “I guess we’re both haunted by violence outside of our control.” But he added with a wry smile, “So why are you and I enemies again?”

“Ha!” you giggled at his sudden change of topic, “I guess we’re also both great at sticking our heads up our asses. Huh?” 

He drained the last few drops from his tumbler and rolled it between his palms, the glass tinkling on the metal of his left hand. “Yeah, guess so.” He raised his empty glass to you. “So here’s to a fresh start. What do you say?”

You shook your head, smiling, “Barnes, both of us are empty.” You picked up your empty glass, tipping it upside down and giving it a shake for good measure.

“Okay, well two things then. First, refill.” 

You gave him a skeptical look, knowing that another drink would have you flat on your back, in more ways than one, “I am cutting myself off, but you do you.”

Bucky shook his head. “Fine, then we’ll toast with water,” he said, standing and waiting for you to do the same. “And second, maybe stop calling me Barnes. Everyone calls me Bucky, even that prick Ross.” 

You couldn’t help the pained smile as you and he walked toward the kitchen, “Man, that guy is really taking a beating in this conversation.”

“Yeah, well, as you said. He tried locking me up, so he probably deserves it.”

You leant against the counter as Bucky pulled out two glasses and poured you both some chilled water. He stood just a little too close in front of you, causing your breath to become shallow and quicken as he handed you your glass, holding up his for a toast. 

“Wait. We’re really doing this?” You smirked as you held up your glass to his.

He looked you in the eyes with an intense stare, “We really are. So here’s to new beginnings and still fighting every now and then because let’s face it, it’s our natural state at this point.”

You pulled your glass back slightly and responding in an agitated tone, “Okay, okay. Fighting is not a natural state for me. Maybe it is for you, but that’s your problem not mine and—” You trailed off when you saw Bucky’s face, smirking at you knowingly, still standing too close.

“Y/N, seriously?” 

You scoffed self-consciously, “Shut it, Bar— Bucky. Fine. To new beginnings and continuing fights.” You clinked your glass against his without waiting a beat and quickly drained it of its contents, hoping that cool water would cool your head, among other places. 

You cleared your throat nervously and turned to the dishwasher to put your glass away. Bucky, that smug bastard, must have sensed that something was up with you because as you were arranging your glass in the top rack and moving a few things around to make room for his, he reached around you from behind, his chest barely brushing your back and shoulders, to set his glass in the now cleared spot before taking just a half a step back. Your head was swimming slightly as flashes of sensations from your vision yet again flooded your mind. You pulled yourself upright, carefully avoiding eye contact with Bucky.

“You alright there, doll?” Bucky’s voice sounded gravelly and just a little cocky. “You look a bit dizzy.” 

You pulled yourself together and looked him in the eyes, “It’s just the Scotch giving me the blind staggers. I’ll be fine.”

“Well then, let me get you into bed, uh, your bed.” Apparently, it was Bucky’s turn to stutter, “I mean, let me walk you to your room to bed, neighbor.”

You tried not to giggle at him, “Okay, neighbor, lead on.”

As you walked, an appropriate distance between you both, your mind kept coming back to that same haunting and taunting fact: your visions always came true. Always.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! There’ll probably be like 2 more parts? Lol, who am I kidding. I have NO idea. Next part will be out……….sometime…


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ༼ ༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ༽ Sorry this is so fucking long; there’s a lot that’s happening, and I couldn’t split it. Also, there will be a few times that you’ll get to see things from Bucky’s POV.

Your heart was still beating at an uncomfortable clip as you stepped out onto the sidewalk and were met by the crisp night air. You shivered, regretting that you hadn’t retrieved a jacket in your haste to leave the tower, but you walked on nonetheless. Your breath came out in smoky puffs as you walked with a rapid step down the sidewalk, willing yourself to calm down, willing yourself to come back to your senses. The turmoil you were experiencing in the aftermath of a vision coming to fruition was something you still, after years of experience, could not anticipate or cope with. And on top of that you were dealing with the sting of disappointed feelings and a hurt pride.

You were lost in your thoughts as you made your way down progressively lonelier streets, heedless of your surroundings. Your phone buzzed from inside your sports bra where you’d shoved it earlier for lack of pockets in your sweater or pajama pants, drawing you partially out of your musings.

> **Barnes:**  Y/N. You’re not in your room. Please, we need to talk.

You laughed bitterly as you typed out your response before turning off your notifications and shoving your phone back into your bra.

> **You:**  Read 12:47am.

Was that message aggressively passive aggressive? Yes. Did you care? Nope. Your pride was stinging, and your emotions were in a downward spiral of hurt, anger, spite, and confusion. And after all that had happened,  _now_  he wanted to talk? Nah. And so, you continued to stalk down the dark street, the cold night air helping to cool your heated and raw nerves.

It’s a well known trope in movies and television. The young woman walking alone in the parking garage or down the dark alleyway, her high heeled shoes clicking and echoing in the emptiness, is always alerted to the presence of her attacker when she hears a second set of footsteps. She speeds her step and sometimes is saved by her male hero and sometimes gets in her car and locks the doors just in the nick of time. But that’s not how it always happens in real life. After all, if someone is sneaking up on someone else, wouldn’t they think to tiptoe or wear soft bottomed shoes to hide their step?

And that’s how it happened. You never heard the car pull up behind you. You never heard them coming. You never saw them reach into their pocket to retrieve the small syringe. All you felt was a hand grabbing your shoulder and small pinch on the side of your neck before your world faded to black.

* * *

**Two Days Earlier**

In the light and clarity of the morning, both you and Bucky could be found in parallel positions with nothing but a wall separating the crowns of your heads. Both of you lay in your respective beds, eyes staring dazedly toward the ceiling as thoughts and memories of the apologies and truce from the previous night filtered through your gently waking minds.

Bucky’s thoughts, much like yours, were a mess, incoherent and incomplete thoughts colliding with one another, muddling and muddying that single clear voice of one’s inner monologue.

Old feelings that he’d felt when he first met you and had suppressed in the months of miscommunication that followed were beginning to resurface. And these old feelings were melding with newer feelings and memories of you. When he’d first met you, he had been taken in by your beauty, offended by your seemingly cold then aggressive demeanor, and unsettled by the fact that you could literally see the future.

In the last few months, he had become accustomed to your Sight, seeing it more as the gift it was rather than an eerie supernatural force. But really, it was more than a little unnerving at times. He’d also come to almost enjoy your ribbing and sarcasm because you never seemed to walk on eggshells around him like so many others had done. And in the last twenty-four hours, he’d learned that the main source of your mutual animosity was more from a lack of communication than any actual hostility and dislike. Your beauty had never been in question. And all these conclusions pointed him to what end? Damned if he knew.

If there was one feeling that Bucky could definitively identify in his myriad of emotions and thoughts, it was regret. He regretted never having taken those initial leaps to talk with you. He regretted that he had let his personal cowardice turn to hostility toward you. He regretted that he had acted out by seeking the distraction of other women when, if he were completely honest with himself, he’d wanted you most of all. He regretted so many of the choices that he’d made since becoming a free man, no longer beholden to Hydra’s command or on the UN’s most wanted list.

And if there was one decision that Bucky could definitively make, it was that he was done regretting. He was moving forward. You and he, as tenuous as it was, had decided to erase the slate and start over. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. Or that was his hope anyhow.

He finally pushed himself up and out of bed and set about getting dressed and ready for his morning training session with Sam, which took longer than normal given his distractible state. By the time he made it to the kitchen to grab a small snack before his workout, you had, no doubt, long finished your breakfast and headed to who knows where.

While he managed to lift weights with vigor, when it came to sparring with Sam, he was off his game and more than once was slammed mercilessly into the mats by Sam.

“Dude. What is with you today?” Sam finally exclaimed as leaned over Bucky’s form flat on the mat. “I think those nine-year-olds I work with at the community center could knock you on your ass today.”

Bucky knew exactly what was with him today. Every time he blinked he could see the way you had looked at him last night in the kitchen. Every time he breathed he could smell the scent of your lotion on your neck when he had attempted to put you in a headlock just over a week ago. And every time his mind began to wander he could hear the sound of your voice speaking to him with those kind but cautious words from the previous night.

“I dunno. Didn’t sleep well last night. Watched an infomercial about grout cleaner though.”

Sam gave him one of those concerned looks that reminded Bucky of the fact that he used to be a social worker at the VA. Usually it was comforting, but today it felt invasive and patronizing, mostly because the excuse he’d given Sam was eighty percent bullshit.

“Sam, I’m okay. Really.”

Sam didn’t look convinced. “Alright, but you know I’m always here if you need to vent or whatever, right?”

Bucky responded sincerely, “I know.”

Sam gave him a squeeze on the shoulder, and Bucky felt a genuine swell of emotion for his friend. The two of them may have often acted like they didn’t get along, but in reality, Sam was second in line to only Steve. And he was pretty sure you were standing alone in a line all your own.

Bucky spent the remainder of the morning on the cardio machines in a futile attempt to wear himself out, his serum fueled body creating a seemingly endless supply of energy.

By the time lunch rolled around, he was eager to see you. Long after he had finished eating his food and the others had finished filing through the kitchen for their lunches, he hung around the kitchen drinking water and reading the news on his phone, trying his best to make it look casual. And all his hard work at pretending to be in no hurry finally paid off when you walked into the kitchen smelling like a chill winter breeze.

He and you made brief eye contact, giving each other an atypically friendly smile.

Bucky finally spoke up while you were lazily watching the dish of leftover pasta turn in circles in the microwave.

“So, where’ve you been all morning?” He looked at you with polite interest.

You snorted, giving him a sarcastic look, “Would you like a time-stamped itinerary or will a general rundown suffice?”

Bucky’s brows creased slightly in disappointed confusion. Had nothing really changed after last night?

You must have sensed this as you then quickly added, “I mean, just kidding. I was out for a nice long walk up to Central Park. Beats being stuck in the stuffy gym, you know?”

Bucky smiled, having thought of what he felt was a congenial teasing response, “Does Steve know that you went to ‘the outside’ without your red hood on?”

You laughed and flipped him off jokingly, “That man is so paranoid. I’ve lived on my own without incident for years, and now all of sudden that I’m with the Avengers, he’s become convinced that there’s a giant ‘kidnap me and use my psychic visions for evil’ sign on my back.”

The teasing had worked. Bucky smiled and shook his head, “Ah, he means well. You should see the way he tries to chaperone me to the bars sometimes.”

“Well, I think you should let him. He needs to cut loose for a change, especially here lately, what with all the uptick in alien weapons dealers in the city. He looks like he might pop an aneurism in his brain any minute now.”

You seemed to be enjoying this new friendly banter as much as he was, “Yeah, I’ve always said that his mother should have named him Atlas since he’s always trying to carry the weight of the heavens on his shoulders.”

You snorted as you carefully carried your steaming bowl of pasta to the table. You looked as though you were about to sit down at the opposite end of the table but, after hesitating for a moment, took the seat on the corner next to him, looking up at him briefly as you sat down.

The two of you fell into a not quite comfortable but not quite awkward silence as you twirled some of the linguini onto your fork and ate. Bucky had no idea what to do or say. Had you been any other person, he would have been fine with the silence or fine with making simple small talk. But neither of those options seemed acceptable for you, so he sat there, waffling and obsessing over what to do or say.

“You okay there, Barnes? You look like you’re either very constipated or very worried about Fiona the Hippo’s first birthday,” you were looking at him with amusement as you pointed down to his phone at the headline.

He smiled and nodded his head sarcastically, “What can I say, doll? I’ve got a growing concern about the media romanticizing Africa’s deadliest animal.” He added with a serious look, “Also, I thought we agreed last night to quit it with the ‘Barnes’ talk.”

You swallowed your last bite of pasta and said teasingly, “My sincerest apologies, Bucky,” you enunciated his name very deliberately, “What can I say? Old habits die hard. Besides, you hardly ever call me by my actual name, so you’re not exactly one to talk.” You patted him on the shoulder as you got up to rinse out your dish. Bucky could swear that he felt the spot on his shoulder burning even well after you removed your hand.

But upon processing what you’d said, his breath caught in his throat momentarily. He’d always called you ‘doll’ almost reflexively, but you’d never made a deal of it before. What had changed? He decided that he should play it cool, “Be that as it may, I don’t ever go around calling you Y/LN.”

You shook your head smiling, “Well, Bucky,” again with a teasing tone, “As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, I’m fairly certain that I smell like a dead tree, so I’m gonna go shower.” You gave him a genuine smile this time before heading down the hall to your room.

Bucky sat at the table in a daze for a moment, unsure what to think of, well, anything. He sighed as he stood and ran his hand through his hair. He pocketed his phone and headed back to his room to try and make some sense of things in his current journal.

Meanwhile in your room, you stepped out of your cold shower—cold showers were quickly becoming the norm for you. You had no idea when this damn vision would finally come to fruition, so all you could do at this point was to wait in increasing sexual frustration. You knew from past experience that attempting to alter the circumstances that led to a vision was pointless. It was only once the actions of your visions were finally taking place that you or anyone else had any ability to change the outcome. And there was nothing in your power to make the vision come sooner or later than was already ordained. Fate could be a real bitch.

For instance, whenever you and Bucky did finally ki—you couldn’t bring yourself to put it to words. You might slap him and walk away if you weren’t comfortable. Maybe you’d accidentally fart or something and end up ruining the moment. You had no idea. All your vision had given you was a snapshot from what was no doubt a much larger moment.

And so much had changed between you and Bucky in such a short amount of time. You wondered where his head was at in all this. Was he just as perplexed and confused as you? More so? Not at all? Unlike you, he didn’t have the benefit—or the confusing curse—of a vision to give him some view of the end of the tunnel. Hell, he didn’t even know there was a metaphorical tunnel at all.

And therein lay your problem. In all your life, you had never had a vision involving your dating or sex life. So why now and what were you supposed to actually  _feel_  about it? You had always been guilty of staring at Bucky—he was undeniably handsome to you—but in all the months of miscommunication and unwarranted hostility, you’d never been afforded the chance to decide what you thought of him as a person.

Were these new feelings of lust, attachment, and anticipation that had been growing since the incident in the gym the product of your vision or the cause? You had, after all, sought him out on friendly terms to apologize and make amends and  _then_  got hit with the vision. But you’d never given any serious thought to him as a potential partner until after. Were you a slave to fate or taking an active role in it? Were your feelings to be trusted or were they merely a product of the power of suggestion?

You let out a frustrated groan and reached for your latest knitting project and settled yourself into your armchair. The soft repetitive motions of your fingers and the even clacking of the needles finally helped to declutter your mind and let you relax into the lazy afternoon.

* * *

That night it was Sam’s turn to cook, so pretty much everyone was hanging around the kitchen like cats who had heard the rattle of the can opener. Even Tony, who usually kept to himself with Pepper up in the penthouse in the evenings, came down with her for dinner. Sam was everyone’s favorite cook, and the menu for the night was roast chicken—three of them; these were the Avengers after all—cooked greens, scalloped potatoes, and few other assorted sides. You were strategically in the kitchen next to Sam, helping him mix up one of the batches of biscuits more from a desire to be the official taste tester than from any real ambition to help or be productive.

“Y/N,” Sam’s voice broke you from your thoughts about how Bucky’s lips would feel, “I think the butter is cut in enough.”

“Hmm?” You looked down at the mixing bowl that he was gently taking from you to see that the butter you had been cutting into the flour had been reduced to a fine meal. Well, at least you could probably get away with blaming Sam for the chewy biscuits. He had after all been foolish enough to trust you with the task.

“I might have thought you were having a vision if you hadn’t been actively mixing the flour. What’s up with you?” Sam was smiling at you with amusement.

“Hmm, oh nothing. I guess I just didn’t sleep well last night is all,” you lied quickly as you began to rinse a few of the dishes and cooking utensils in the sink next to him.

Birds of a feather Sam thought to himself as he snorted, “Yeah, been hearing that line a lot today. Did something happen between you and Barnes? It’s the first time I’ve seen you at dinner since you punched him in the nuts, and neither of you have so much as glared at the other the entire time. It’s unsettling.”

You rolled your eyes, “I did not punch him in the nuts; I elbowed him. There’s a difference.” You rolled your eyes again as Sam kept staring at you in his amused but expectant way, “I guess you could say that he and I decided to try a truce of sorts; hence, the whole not fighting thing we’ve got going at the moment.” You added as an afterthought, “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Sam nudged you with his elbow suggestively, “Oh, I see. Now does he have anything to do with why you’re so tired this evening?”

“Sam, so help me god, I will point this water sprayer directly at you right now, biscuits be damned.”

“So, that’s a yes, then.” Sam’s cheeky smile only grew wider.

“Yeah, whatever, but not in the way that you’re implying. We just talked on the couch watching—”

“Don’t tell me,  _Angel_?” Sam interrupted, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Don’t you ever get tired of watching that show?”

You scoffed and said defensively, “As a matter of fact, no, I don’t. Nor do I get tired of watching  _iZombie_ ,  _Psych_ , or  _That’s So Raven_. Excuse me for seeking out relatable characters.”

“Oh, come on now. The guy in  _Psych_  isn’t even a real psychic!”

You clicked your tongue at him, “So? He’s still relatable. I mean, he’s fighting crime, righting wrongs, all that hero shit you all love so much.” You sighed, “But back to the matter at hand, we just talked. There was no hanky panky, so don’t even start.”

Sam held up his flour dusted hands in surrender, “I never said a thing.”

“Haven’t you ever heard the expression that actions speak louder than words?” And you nudged him in the same way he had nudged you before.

Little did you know that across from the kitchen, Bucky, who was attempting to play chess with Steve, was watching you and Sam with a sharp eye, growing increasingly irritated with how closely you were both standing. He picked up his Rook with his left hand and was deciding where to put it when he saw you nudge Sam in the side with your elbow, and suddenly the small plaster figure snapped in two under the pressure of his grip.

Steve looked up with a raised brow, “Buck, you doin’ alright there?”

Bucky set the top half of the Rook down on the table and placed the still intact base on his intended target space, “Yeah, just don’t know my own strength sometimes.”

Steve, who looked over his shoulder where Bucky’s eyes had been glowering earlier and saw you and Sam laughing and talking, smiled knowingly, “Sure, Buck, sure.”

Bucky sighed, “Your move, punk.”

* * *

When everyone was finally done passing around dishes and filling their plates, the pervasive chatter that had been filling the kitchen for the last hour or so died down as everyone tore into their food. It was a very satisfied silence and just further proof of how well loved Sam’s cooking was. But eventually the bites became slower and the waistbands a little tighter. For everyone but the two seemingly insatiable super-soldiers, that is.

“Y/N, can you pass the potatoes?” Steve asked, looking at the dish expectantly.

“Jesus, Steve,” you laughed as reached to pick up the dish, “Why don’t you just eat directly out of the casserole dish, huh? You’re not fooling anyone.”

Steve rolled his eyes at you, but quite suddenly his casual amusement turned to action as he was forced to leap from his chair and catch the still steaming dish when your grip went slack and you fell back into your seat with a gentle plop.

“Vision,” Steve announced to table.

Bucky couldn’t help but stare whenever he was around for your visions. They unnerved him as much as they mesmerized him. Your eyes would go wide with an almost wondrous expression, and your brows might twitch ever so slightly in response to what you were seeing, feeling, and experiencing. But what made them so unnerving to him was how still you seemed. While your eyes were not focused on anything in particular, you didn’t have that despairing thousand-yard stare that combat veterans were renown for, but rather a thousand- _mile_  stare as your eyes focused on images not of this dimension.

His mind continued to wander, and still he looked on as your vision went into its second minute. He knew from the others that you had been institutionalized for a time when you were a teenager and that you had only been released once you had reached the age of majority and could no longer be legally held. He couldn’t help but wonder in that moment at how many had come before you and had suffered for longer in less enlightened times. He wondered how the men and women of his own time might have reacted to someone such as you. Would you have been greeted with awe or antipathy? These ruminations, however, would have to wait.

You slumped forward in your chair as you blinked your way back to the present, taking a few deep, erratic breaths. Bucky immediately looked down at his phone as he always did, not wanting it noticed that he had been staring.

Everyone around the table waited patiently as you processed what you had seen. A man. You had seen his face in a vision before when that kid, Spiderman, had almost sunk the Staten Island ferry. It had taken place before you had joined the Avengers, but you had been the one to tip off Tony about the debacle via a burner phone. The man’s face, however, had changed somewhat in the meantime.

“Steve, sketch,” was all you could get out as you closed your eyes, desperately searching for any details that might have been in the background: like, for instance, the small day-by-day calendar that you could just make out. It was like re-watching a movie for the first time and finding clues that you had missed in the initial viewing as you tried to keep up with the plot at the expense of missing the minutia.

Steve bolted for his room and returned within a minute, a large sketchbook and pencil set in his hands.

You and he sat side by side in the living room, him sketching and you directing, while the rest cleared the table and took over dish duty, save for Sam who was exempt as that night’s cook and watched Steve draw with mild interest.

The man’s face soon began to take on a distinct appearance from the vague ovals and lines with which Steve had started. He had piercing eyes, and over his left eye he wore a grizzly set of scars extending from his forehead to his cheekbone, and on his other cheek, there was another thin, faded scar. His most defining feature, aside from these scars, was the scorpion tattoo that appeared to be crawling down the left side of his throat.

You saw Tony coming over to the couch, wiping his hands on a towel, and you looked up at him expectantly.

“Recognize this guy? He was there on that ferry when your kid, Parker, almost got everyone killed,” you said the last part in a half whisper.

Tony’s eyes darkened when they fell on the sketch in Steve’s lap. He knew the face well by now.

“Mac Gargan. Put out a hit on Spiderman last year or a reward for anyone who knew his identity.” Tony continued to stare intently at the sketch. “What did you see about him?”

“He’s breaking out of prison tomorrow night.”

* * *

The flurry of activity that took place over the next twenty-four hours was dizzying. You had been forced to describe every single detail from your vision repeatedly till you thought you might scream, and then you’d had to describe it a little bit more.

Even though his identity was still safe, Peter Parker, whom you had never actually met, and his Aunt May were both sent to one of Tony’s high security homes in Malibu under the protection of Natasha and Steve, just in case things should go south.

The main reason for this, as you continually had to remind everyone, was that, no matter what, Gargan was going escape, at what time exactly and from where you didn’t know. He would break out from a holding facility of some sort during a transport for one of his court appeals by killing one of his guards and bribing the others; his handcuffs were going to be removed and his orange jumpsuit traded for new clothes; and he was going to get into a black limousine with dark tinted windows that would then drive away down a dimly lit street that had no visible road signs.

What happened after the limo drove away was anyone’s guess. The limo might get T-boned by a drunk driver, killing everyone inside, or taken up into the sky by new alien invaders for all you could tell. But you were skeptical that anyone would actually manage to apprehend him after the escape.

Gargan’s current whereabouts was the rare kind of information that not even Tony could get. Because of his numerous mob connections and his dangerous criminal file, information regarding Gargan’s transport detail was being kept under lock and key lest it fall into the wrong hands, despite your insistence that it already had. And even though the world was fast becoming accustomed to people with special and remarkable talents, Tony’s claim that his psychic friend had seen his escape in a vision was not quite convincing the people in charge.

It, therefore, came as no surprise when, the following evening just after eight o’clock, Friday alerted everyone that the New York State Police had just issued a BOLO alert for the entire tri-state area. It was done. He was out. And while others on the team still had some contributions to make to the cause, it was as largely out of their hands now as it was out of yours. Your vision had come to pass as always, and there was nothing more that you could really provide anyone in terms of support or planning. And as Tony had said once before, as important as an escaped convict was, it didn’t quite fall under the already nebulous jurisdiction of the Avengers.

So it was over. Tony would lend help and resources if the NYSP requested any, but any further interference into state affairs was more likely to breed animosity than comradery. Because if state and local officials hated the meddling of federal agents, then they really hated the meddling of the Avengers.

And so, in the waning hours of the night, you found yourself in a similar situation as you had been in two nights ago. Most everyone had retired early as sleep had been in short supply the previous night. But not you. You were in that paradoxical state of being too tired to sleep. You lay in bed, head barely elevated, staring glassy eyed at the vivid imagery in the nature documentary on your laptop and taking in surprisingly little information.

In between marveling at the brightly colored plumage of the tropical birds, your mind was otherwise occupied in contemplating the bittersweet gift of knowing the future and wondering if you’d finally been duped by a vision. A new vision had come and gone, and you still had yet to wrap your legs around Bucky, except in your dreams.

A loud crashing sound from the wall behind you startled you out of your stupor. You muted your computer and listened. There were two possibilities: Bucky was entertaining a woman, the thought of which made your stomach turn, or Bucky was having a nightmare, which also made your stomach turn but for a very different reason. In case it was the latter, you sat up and pressed your ear to the wall, and you could barely make out the plaintive calls of someone in distress.

Your instinct was to go knock on Steve’s door as you pulled off your nightshirt to put on a sports bra that was slung over your desk chair and a warm sweater that was balled up on the floor, but he was probably drinking a piña colada and watching the sunset over the Pacific with Natasha, Peter, and May. You briefly considered getting Sam, who usually helped in Steve’s absence, but for some reason when you crept out into the hall, your feet led you to Bucky’s door instead. You knocked on his door, hoping that maybe the noise would be enough to wake him or stir his mind from whatever dream it was trapped in. A low whimper proved that hope wrong, so you gently eased his door open and shut it silently behind you as you took in the sight before you.

He wore only his sweatpants, his face drawn in terror and his fists tightly clenched at his side. His thrashing, however, seemed to have ceased as he lay motionless on his back in the tangle of sheets and took slow shallow breaths. Sleep paralysis. You’d seen it before in your fellow patients when you’d been in the mental hospital as a teenager. And you actually felt like you could handle this. You knew from experience, having observed the orderlies, how to wake him as calmly as possible.

In case some part of him were conscious, as was common in sleep paralysis, you whispered in a low tone, “Bucky? You’re just having a dream, okay? I’m gonna come wake you up.” And you slowly walked over to his bed and carefully sat down next to him, doing you best to not shake the mattress.

Still whispering as you’d seen the orderlies do, you said to him, “I’m going to put my hand on your arm, okay? You’re just dreaming.”

You gently placed your hand on his right upper arm and began to rub up and down. When you saw his head move slightly, you cupped his left cheek with your other hand and moved it down to lightly massage the side of his neck and the back of his head, still murmuring his name softly, until he finally began to blink awake.

A sharp intake of breath signaled that he was finally fully awake. But what caught you off guard was how he shot up from the bed and wrapped his arms around your middle, burying his face in your neck. His breath was coming in deep ragged gasps and his hands gripped tightly onto your sweater.

“It’s okay. I’m here, Bucky. It’s over now,” you whispered into his ear, gently running one of your hands over his back while the other combed through his hair. You nuzzled your cheek and nose on the top of his head, selfishly enjoying the closeness of the moment, as you breathed him in.

You could hear a muffled “thank you,” his breath tickling the delicate skin near your throat, until he finally pulled away from you slightly, still clutching tightly at your back, his eyes boring into yours.

Normally, you would have shied away from such intense and prolonged eye-contact, but the small amount of tenderness in his gaze made it hard to look away as he drew you in like a moth to a flame. Without realizing it, you both leaned into the other until your lips met in the middle with an electric heat that emanated from the point of contact.

It started slowly, timidly. You momentarily forgot how to breathe as Bucky’s lips melted onto yours and gently parted, moaning into you. His taste was intoxicating as he massaged his tongue against yours. You could feel a low rumble in his chest as he pulled you into his lap, his fingers dancing against the bare skin of your back just above your waistband. Your hand balled into a fist against his scalp as you roughly moved your lips against the stubble on his chin and throat, gently nipping at his skin.

Desire was licking at every nerve as his flesh hand pulled desperately on the lower hem of your sweater. You pulled back only long enough for him to rip it over your head and off your arms, and without a second thought, you pulled your bra over your head as well, throwing it over your shoulder. Bucky let out an almost pained whimper as he looked at you, lunging forward, throwing you both backward onto the bed.

You couldn’t help the breathy sigh that passed your lips as Bucky buried his face in the valley between your breasts, inhaling deeply the scent of your skin. You cupped his cheeks, bringing his face back to yours as you captured his lips with your own in a whimpering kiss. Your fingers traveled down his body, digging into the ridged muscles of his stomach and chest.

Wrapping your legs around his hips, you savored in the feeling of his desire rubbing against your core. His hands, both of them, ran slowly up your sides massaging your breasts, your ribs, your shoulder blades. The contrast between searing heat and ice cold was like nothing you had ever felt in your life. His breath was heavy as he moaned your name into another kiss.

You gasped and could almost feel your pupils dilate as realization washed over you: this was it, your vision. You’d never experienced being in one of your own visions before and the magnitude of it bowled over you, your movements faltering for just a second. But even that was long enough for Bucky to notice as he pulled away. You looked at his drawn face, trying to get a glimpse of what he was thinking or feeling. Gifted though you might be, you were no mind reader.

Then suddenly without warning, Bucky jerked upright and out of your embrace, a wild look in his eyes. His face was contorted in disgust and anxiety. He blindly reached in his hamper for a shirt before walking backward toward his door, his eyes not leaving your shocked face.

“I can’t— sorry, can’t be here,” was all he mumbled before he turned, wrenched open his door, and fled the room.

Your heart, which had previously been threatening to beat out of your chest, seemed to have stopped beating altogether. You gasped in small swallows of air as you sat there dumbfounded.

“But this…” you called faintly, futilely into the emptiness, “this is  _your_  room.”

You slowly sat upright, your eyes searching the dark room until they found your bra and sweater on the desk, where they both had been flung in the heat of the moment, a moment that was over, a moment you couldn’t get back.

Yours hands shook as you tugged your bra over your head and pulled your sweater on. You tried to ignore the hollow aching in your gut as you stumbled down the hall to your room. You tried to sit on the edge of your bed, but the adrenaline from earlier was still coursing through your veins, and the solitary confines of your room threatened to suffocate you.

As if on autopilot, you pulled on your shoes and grabbed your phone from the charger on your desk, tucking it under your bra strap.

Your mind spun in circles as your rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the tower. Had Bucky merely been a pawn in the machinations of fate as much you were? Upon realizing his lack of agency, had he truly been filled with the disgust you had seen so plainly on his face? Your heart sank and your stomach cramped. You had been rejected before, but none of those instances even came close to comparing with the empty aching you felt now.

A long walk in the cold night air was step one in getting your head cleared. Step two. Well, you could figure out what step two was after step one.

Bucky meanwhile was occupying himself in the gym, beating the stuffing out of a punching bag, quite literally as sand pooled on the floor beneath his still bare feet. What had he been thinking? You had come in to his room to help him, to wake him from a nightmare and sleep paralysis. And this was how he thanked you? By throwing himself at you like some horny teenager? He had thought he was done making regrettable decisions, and yet here he was regretting the fact that he couldn’t have just thanked you like a normal person, maybe asked you out for coffee tomorrow, and maybe, just maybe, have kissed you at the end of the date.

He rested his fists on the bag as he leaned his face forward against the soft leather surface. He couldn’t deny how you had reciprocated his every touch. Just thinking about the way you had whimpered and gasped under him filled him with renewed desire. But there was also no denying how you had suddenly frozen in fear. The way your eyes had gone wide with shock and how your muscles had suddenly tensed at his touch.

No, you may have been into it at first, but he had gone too far, pushed you into something that you now regretted. With one final blow of his metal hand, he sent a spray of sand flying across the gym. He had to see you. He needed to apologize for taking advantage of you. He needed to make this right.

When he finally stood in front of your room, he could see from the ajar door, that you were not inside. He walked in slowly thinking that you might be in your bathroom, but the door was open and the lights were out.

“Y/N?” He called hopefully, but there was no response.

Maybe you were still in his room, tearing up his journals or throwing his possessions about in anger. But his room, too, was empty. He grabbed up his phone and sent you a text asking to talk. He then checked the kitchen, balconies, and finally the TV room, where he knew you liked to watch away your anxieties. But all were empty.

He sat down on the couch in hopeless worry as his phone buzzed, and he read your terse message. He dropped his phone on the coffee table as he cradled his face in his hands, thinking about how he had ruined whatever chance at friendship, or more, that he had been given over the last two days. His eyes stung with unshed tears as he crumpled sideways onto the couch, feeling more like a sad young child than a century-old ex assassin.

What he didn’t know was that within a half an hour, your limp, unconscious body would be pulled into the back of a black limousine with dark tinted windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL, I’m such an ass for leaving yall like that. Also, I will TRY to make the next part a more manageable length (ha! as if). Thank yall, as always for such positive responses even though I feel like this whole fic is completely fucking unhinged. BLESS.


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! This probably has hella typos because I’ve barely edited it because I’ve been editing a huge document ALL DAY (sigh). Also, folks, I have a flip phone, so if I say something really dumb and incorrect about smart phones, please just pat me gently on the head and humor me. lol.
> 
> I got a lot of inspiration for this part from watching this dude’s analysis of Gargan.

You felt like you were on a tilt-a-whirl as the world beneath you swayed and rocked and spun. Your eyes could not open. Where were you? Were you lying flat? Standing? Hanging upside down by your ankles? Where was up and where was down? Ugh, you had to stop thinking about that. You were beginning to feel nauseated. You tried to clutch at your stomach reflexively, but your hands were stuck together, something hard digging into the soft skin of your wrists. In your delirium, you kicked your legs but found that your ankles too were bound together.

“Easy, easy,” came a male voice, laced with amusement, “Don’t throw yourself off the couch now. Thought you’d never wake up, thought we might have dosed you with too much of that tranq.”

You blinked open your sticky, heavy eyelids and saw that you were, in fact, horizontal and laying on some sort of couch, the blurry silhouette of a man crouching before you. The sensation of swaying still would not abate.

“Here, let’s get these off, uh?” His hands reached forward with a what looked like a knife. You flinched away and were met with a low chuckle, “Not gonna cut you. There’d be no sense in that yet.” And with a swift motion, he sliced through the zip ties at your wrists and then your ankles.

You sat upright cautiously and reached up with your hands and scrubbed furiously at your eyes, and slowly your surroundings began to come into focus. The swaying finally made sense. You were on a [white couch in a room](https://italyclassico.casacdn.com/eurooo/image/article/20170718141226.jpg@!article_big2) that had a view of the wide expanse of the ocean from its large windows. You were on a boat. At both ends of the room stood several men, pistols holstered at their belts. And the man seated before you was none other than the man from your vision, Mac Gargan. And maybe it was just your eyes still recovering from whatever tranquilizer you’d been drugged with, but you could have sworn you saw the scorpion tattoo on his throat twitch its tail at you.

You shook away such thoughts and focused your still blurry eyes on him as best as you could. “Where am I? What do you want from me?” You asked, your voice coming out shaky, massaging lightly at the inflamed skin of your wrists.

You knew the answer to the latter. What else would the leader of a major criminal syndicate want from you other than your visions? Your stomach clenched uncomfortably at that thought.

He stared at you, his piercing eyes seeming to burn holes into your very soul. The small smile playing at the corners of his mouth might have softened his features were it not for his otherwise unsettlingly sinister demeanor.

“And here I thought that as my prisoner, you would be answering my questions.” He ducked his head down to look at you in way that reminded you of a predatory bird sizing up a field mouse, that threatening grin still in place. “But I suppose there’s no harm in keeping you informed. You’re on a yacht that is currently floating in international waters, well away from any shipping lanes. So in case you were hoping that your little friends in capes would come to rescue you, you can save it. The only people who know you’re with us and know our location are the ones on my payroll.” He continued to stare, seeming as though he did not need to blink as much as the average man.

He continued in low voice, “And I think you know why we have you here, Y/N is it? I’ve had my men surveilling you for some time now, the newest person to welcomed into the fold at Stark Tower. As such, I believe you have information that I have been itching to get a hold of for a very long time.” You finally wrenched your eyes from his gaze, eliciting another low laugh from him.

Your eyes scanned the horizon through the large open window in front of you. There was nothingness, the blue of the sky seamlessly melding with the water that reflected it. You turned around to look out the window behind you and were met with the same sight. A sickening sensation crept up your spine as you finally began to comprehend just how utterly alone you were: on the open ocean, hundreds of miles from land, hundreds of miles from safety and freedom, and hundreds of miles from Bucky. Your chest gave a tight squeeze at the thought of him.

Even in such imminent danger as you were, you couldn’t help but think about him, about last night, about the fact that you might not ever see him again, the thought that you would never be able to make things right. But the thought that was foremost in your mind was that there were two paths before you, a life of servitude and selling out your friends by telling Gargan and his men your visions or a refusal that would likely result in torture and then death. In either case, you’d never see Bucky or your friends again.

And still the boat rocked and waved side to side, back to front, like a parody of a baby’s crib or a mother’s arms. You wanted to be comforted by the gentle swaying, but your stomach turned as bile rose in your throat. You couldn’t control yourself any longer.

Your discomfort must have been apparent on your face as Gargan and his men standing guard did nothing to stop you when you lunged to the side for the empty ice bucket on the end table, retching violently into it. You hadn’t eaten since a hurried dinner the previous evening, and you coughed as the sting of stomach acid in your throat worsened your nausea. As you attempted to catch your breath, a hand holding a small glass of water appeared next to you. You eyed it suspiciously, refusing to take it.

“It’s not poisoned or drugged, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Gargan said, “How could we get the information we need if you’re dead or asleep, uh? Drink. I need you feeling well enough to talk.”

You reluctantly took the glass and sipped at the water cautiously, still not trusting him in the slightest and not wanting to further upset your stomach by drinking too quickly. However, your feelings of hopelessness were suddenly challenged. You felt something hard press against your arm pit, something that had clearly gone unnoticed by Gargan and his men. You could just feel the slick metal case of your phone press against your skin. In all your movements, it must have slid down from your bra strap to under your arm either when they had drugged you and dragged you onto the boat or just now when you had propelled yourself off the couch.

Surely, they would have checked you for a phone. But perhaps in the absence of pockets in your leggings and sweater, they had assumed your phone wasn’t on you. Ha! Men. Of course they wouldn’t think to check your bra. You allowed yourself this small internal moment of triumph. If your cell battery could hold, then maybe, just maybe, it would simply be a matter of time before Tony could trace it and your location with satellites or something, right? That’s how cell phones worked, right? You weren’t sure, but you would cling to that small hope as though your life depended on it, which it probably did.

You slowly got up from your kneeling position and made your way back to the couch, hoping that the relief that flooding your body had gone unnoticed.

Gargan was looking intently at you, but the superior glint in his eyes told you that he was none the wiser, that he still felt that he had the upper hand. But he didn’t; you did. This was just a waiting game now. Tony would find you; he had to.

One of his men placed a bowl of oatmeal on the coffee table in front of you. Just as with the water, you hesitated in taking it.

“Come now. Eat. Our cook, Marco here, prepared the oatmeal specially for you and your sensitive stomach.” There was nothing comforting about Gargan’s words, and this Marco had a rather surly demeanor, looking more like a body builder or MMA heavyweight than a cook. The oatmeal, however, was decent enough, and you slowly ate it as Gargan took his seat across from you, continuing to stare you down.

“What time is it?” You asked between bites, wanting to get an idea of how long you might need to bide your time before Tony and the others would hopefully come rescue you.

Gargan looked down at his watch, “Quarter past 11:00. Now, you know why you’re here, uh? So let’s talk.”

Your stomach gave an uncomfortable flip, and the oatmeal, as soothing and filling as it was, seemed to turned to ash in your mouth. You struggled to force your bite down. You decided not to show your hand, holding out on the hope that Gargan was largely ignorant of the finer details of how your visions worked.

“And what would you like to talk about?” You tried to give him an icy stare, but given your nausea and residual exhaustion from the tranquilizer, you probably just looked like an idiot.

“I won’t beat around the bush. You’re gonna tell me who Spiderman is and where I can find him. Now.”

You dropped your spoon with audible clatter. It hit the bowl on its way down, causing it to spray the spoonful of oatmeal on the table in front of you. What? Spiderman? Did he not even know about your visions? What the hell?

Gargan laughed and sneered at you, but his eyes narrowed with cunning. “Now why on earth would that come as a surprise to you? Is there something else you’re hiding?”

You tried to keep your face emotionless as you took even and measured breaths. He had no idea who you really were or what you really knew and had yet to know. You needed to keep it that way and maybe stall a bit while you were at it. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so direct. Usually the supervillains in movies talk about their evil plans and sharks with frickin’ laser beams for a while before getting down to business.”

Gargan kept his face flat as he motioned to Marco. The large man walked over to you, and you heard the slap before you could register the white-hot stinging in your cheek. Your head jerked to the side, and your hand shot up to clutch it and soothe the throbbing and tingling pain radiating across your skin.

“You got a smart mouth on you. I don’t like that in a woman. Hell, I don’t even like that in a man. When I tell you that you’re gonna do something  _now_ , that means five minutes ago. Got it?”

You glared at him soundlessly, willing yourself to look brave on the outside even though you felt like chicken shit on the inside.

He folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward. “I don’t know who you are or how you came to be so close with the Avengers, and I don’t care. I do know that you spend enough time with them that you must know all their secrets, but I only want one. And unlike your super friends, you have no special abilities, no enhanced healing or experiences with interrogations or torture. So, let’s make sure we don’t need to come to that, uh?” He paused, staring you in the eye, “Now, you are going to tell me the identity of Spiderman.”

You felt the blood drain from your face in an icy wave. You couldn’t obviously tell him Peter’s name, but you also knew he was right. If torture was on the table, you weren’t going last five minutes. Maybe you could just claim ignorance. Or maybe your shock from before had already made it clear that you did, in fact, know the identity of Spiderman. You were desperately running through your limited options and coming up short each time.

Apparently, your thoughts had taken too much time as the back of Marco’s hand struck your other cheek.

“Fuck!” You couldn’t hold back this time. Okay, you had to think quick. Lie. You had to lie and pray that he didn’t have a wireless internet connection on board to make sure it you weren’t telling a lie. And stall. Buy as much time as you could before forcing yourself into the corner that a lie would create.

“Okay, okay. I’ll talk, but first I need to know what’s in it for me.” You glared up at Gargan, breathing heavily.

He sat back and chuckled lowly, “You see that Marco? They say there’s no heroes amongst thieves, but apparently there’s no heroes amongst heroes either.” You perked up at his sudden interest. Stalling might be just the ticket for the time being.

“Heroes? I would hardly call them heroes. I work as their personal assistant, and they treat me like a servant or something, running me ragged day in and day out. And that bastard Stark barely gives me a living wage. But you’re right, I know  _all_  their secrets, which I am willing to share with you, but as you know, you can’t something for nothing.” You squared your shoulders and returned his unwavering stare. “So, I’ll ask you again, what will you give me for these secrets?”

You hoped that your gaze was steady and your voice even. You hoped that you were exuding the disgust toward the Avengers and the confidence in your leverage that you were so eagerly trying to portray. In short, you hoped you were really selling it.

Gargan took a long few moments to regard you and weigh your words before he motioned to Marco again. You kept yourself from flinching but mentally prepared yourself for another hard slap, but the slap never came. Marco retrieved a small case from a table just outside the room, and handed it to Gargan who wore a wry smile.

“You’re not a stupid as you look, you know.”

You muttered out a sarcastic, “Thanks?”

Gargan opened the case and turned it around for you to see. It was just like in the movies: rows and rows of stacked and bound $100 bills. “This is 700,000 dollars.” He let the amount sink in for a moment, “This will be yours when you tell me the name of Spiderman and where I can find him. Now,” and he looked at your expectantly.

Damn. Your stalling had only bought you a few minutes. Gargan was nothing if not focused. You needed to buy more time, but were at a loss as to how. Additionally, your whole plan was centered around a half-baked idea that Tony might be able to trace your cell phone, which you were now starting to fear was more the stuff of movies and TV than real life. And that’s when an idea struck you. Men and their ignorance of women.

“And I will be happy to share that info with you, but first, I really need to go the bathroom.” Gargan looked like he was about to protest, but you continued before he could interrupt, “Look it’s  _that_  time of the month, if you know what I mean, and this is a white couch. Now, while I’m sure you and your men are pros at removing bloodstains, why don’t we all just avoid that awkward situation and let me go take a piss, yeah?”

Gargan sighed discontentedly and nodded his head to Marco, who shifted uncomfortably.

“What is it, Marco?” Gargan snapped.

The large burly man spoke in a surprisingly soft voice, “Sir, we, uh, don’t have any feminine products on board.” You could see Gargan run a hand down his face in in exasperation.

You stood from the couch and clapped Marco on the shoulder, “Ah, don’t worry about that big guy, I’ll just wad up a shit ton of toilet paper into a diaper. Now, which way is bathroom?”

Marco, still looking a little bewildered, pointed to a narrow door just outside the room.

Without waiting for another word, you strode quickly into the bathroom and locked the door behind you. You let out a long shaky breath at finally being alone, finally able to express the tumultuous emotions running laps in your mind, a small sliver gratefulness shining through that many men, even hardened criminals and murderers, were uncomfortable around topics of menstruation. Thanks, misogyny.

Taking the opportunity to actually relieve yourself, you sat down on the toilet and pulled out your phone. There was a string of messages from Bucky, desperate apologies that morphed into desperate pleas to know where you were and if you were okay. There were a few messages from Wanda and Tony as well repeatedly asking you to respond.

Opening up the last message from Tony you read.

> **Anthony:**  Wanda thinks something happened between you and Barnes. I won’t pry, but please respond if you are ok.  
>  If you don’t, we’re coming to find you.   
>  We’re worried Y/N.

You quickly tapped out a response.

> **You:**  Tony. Gargan has me. I’m on a yacht in ‘international waters.’ They don’t know I had my cell in my bra. You can trace it like in the movies, right? They want to know who Spiderman is. I’ve counted about 5 men, probably more, all armed. Please tell Bucky I’m so sorry. DON’T text back.

Your battery was low, so you quickly shutdown all your apps and enabled the power saving mode before tucking it back into your bra under your arm.

You flushed the toilet and washed your hands before looking at yourself in the mirror. Your appearance more or less reflected how you felt after having been tranquilized and slapped several times. Your skin was waxy, your were eyes puffy, and there was a small swollen spot on your left cheek where Marco’s ring had collided with your cheekbone.

There came a loud knock on the door followed by Marco’s muffled voice, “Hurry up in there!”

You rolled your eyes, “Sorry, but my underwear looks like a murder scene. Gimme a sec!” You knew you’d only be able to milk their masculine insecurities for so long, but you needed every second you could get. Tony would have gotten your message by now and begun tracing your phone, if he hadn’t done so already.

You took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh before opening the bathroom door and heading back out to Gargan.

* * *

Bucky awoke with a start when a pair of hands grabbed him and shook him roughly. He lashed out with his fists from sheer instinct, but with a flash of red, he was propelled off the couch and fell face first onto the floor.

“Ah, fuck,” he grumbled into the rug that was in desperate need of a vacuum. His head was pounding, the rough awakening not helping it to abate. “What the hell, Wanda?”

“You smell like a liquor store that got robbed, Bucky. Did you drink all of Thor’s liquor or just most of it?”

Ah, yes. That was the reason for his throbbing head and roiling stomach. “No comment,” he replied gruffly before lifting himself onto unsteady feet, massaging comfortingly at his head and temples.

“You seen Y/N?” She asked, not even bothering to look apologetic for knocking him out of sleep. “I went to her room to see if she’d join me for an early-bird movie showing, but I can’t find her anywhere.”

He gulped ruefully as memories from the previous night filtered through his hangover fogged mind. You in his bed, in his arms. Him running away in guilt. The text messages that had gone unanswered, before drinking himself into a stupor on the couch.

“Bucky?” Wanda asked, concerned by his sudden silence and staring at him disecerningly.

“What? Oh, I haven’t seen her since last night. You asked Friday where she is? Or, y’know, used your powers to find her mind or whatever?” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck.

Wanda gave him with an unamused stare, “You know she hates when we do shit like that, snooping around. And before you ask, yes, I’ve texted her several times with no response.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll show up. Maybe she went for one of her walks. Probably come waltzing in at lunch like she does sometimes.” He knew it sounded lame even as he spoke, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit to Wanda that if you had gone for a long walk, his forward behavior last night was no doubt the reason why.

Wanda sighed, “Okay, well, if you see or hear from her, tell her to come find me.” She fixed him with a look that said she wasn’t completely ignorant of what had transpired. The guilt was probably pouring off of him like a waterfall.

“Will do.”

As Wanda turned on her heel and strode from the room, Bucky sank back down on the couch where he’d fallen asleep last night and buried his head in his hands, a steady stream of fuck words berating him in his mind. You had probably returned from your walk some time in the night and as soon as the sun rose headed back out again to avoid having to see him at all.

He got up and stumbled his way to the kitchen, which was blessedly empty, and made himself a strong cup of coffee a large breakfast, which might as well have been an early lunch at this point, of eggs and sausage, hoping that the combination of caffeine and greasy protein would help counter the hangover.

By the time he’d finished eating and cleaning the fry pans and his dishes, it was just past noon. Bucky was about to head back to his room for a long, lonely shower when Tony and Wanda burst through the doors, closely followed by Sam.

“What’s the commotion?” Bucky asked.

Tony, wasting no time on the details, stated simply, worry lacing every syllable, “Y/N just texted me. Gargan kidnapped her and has her on a boat, somewhere in the Atlantic I’m assuming. Friday’s getting a trace on her phone, but she’s well out of normal cell coverage areas, so it’s taking a while. Suit up. Quinjet is leaving in ten.”

It felt as though someone had taken a wrecking ball to Bucky’s chest, the way that the air suddenly seemed to evacuate his lungs, leaving him empty and starving for oxygen. His body seeming to move on autopilot more than conscious actions, he made his way into his room and dressed quickly in his tactical suit.

This was all his fault. His fault. If he hadn’t come onto you in his own bed and taken advantage of you, you never would have left last night, never would have been made vulnerable. Gargan never could have taken you if you had been safe in the tower where you had probably felt safe until the previous night’s activities. As much as Bucky wanted to think about anything else, guilt was a natural state of being for him. Guilt was just about his only constant. And even though usually he felt guilty about the things he’d done in his past as the Winter Soldier, it wasn’t all that much of a stretch for him to now obsess with guilt over you.

He was lost in his thoughts and his tortures as he made his way onto the plane. Clint was in the pilot’s seat while Tony was typing away furiously at a laptop, and Sam and Wanda were doing a last-minute check over his Falcon suit. Once Bucky had boarded, Clint gave everyone the signal to sit during liftoff before easing the quinjet out of the small hangar.

Once at a cruising altitude, the others got up, doing small tasks in preparation for what was sure to turn into an ugly fight. Tony continued to type away on his computer.

“Alright, the cell phone trace finally finished, and I’ve just entered the coordinates of Y/N’s location into the jet’s nav system. We’re on a direct course and should get within range of the boat in about forty minutes.”

This was the part of any mission that Bucky hated the most, the travelling, the sitting, the waiting. If there were some way for him to simply teleport to his missions, he would be happier for it. Anything would be better than sitting in anxious silence as the jet seemed to creep to its destination. And this mission in particular was making the waiting all the more suffocating.

Finally, with some agitation, Bucky stood, eager to move his legs. He walked over to Tony, who was still working diligently on his laptop.

“Stark, what are you doing?” Bucky asked, hoping that he might be able to help in some way.

“I’m hacking the Manhattan traffic cameras, that’s what,” Tony said with a smug smirk that he didn’t even bother to hide.

“Uhm, okay?” Bucky said, clearly wanting Tony to elaborate.

“I’ve got Friday running facial recognition through the archives from last night up until about ten this morning, to see how and where Y/N might have been abducted.” His smile dropped at that.

“But we know where she is already, why do we need the footage?” Bucky took a seat next to Tony, looking at the computer running through frames of video at a fast pace.

“So that when we hand Gargan over to NYSP, we have hard evidence of what happened. I’ll be sure that any charge we can level at him will stick. Make sure this son of a bitch gets locked up and stays there.”

Bucky nodded his head, worry still creasing his forehead as the guilt continued doing somersaults in his mind. “Wait, won’t he just bribe his way out again? What’s even the point?”

Tony pursed his lips in almost mild amusement, “Don’t be such a Negative Nancy, Barnes. I’m going to implant one these tracking devices in his neck.” He held up a small round device no bigger than fly, “which, yes, it technically is illegal, but we’ll just keep that information to ourselves.” He tapped his finger to the bridge of his nose as he spoke.

Bucky’s mouth flinched into a half smile. At least Gargan really would be locked away for good this time, and if he did escape, Tony would be able to get him before he could even celebrate his stolen freedom.

“The program is done rendering, boss. Shall I download the flagged videos?” Friday’s disembodied lilt filtered through the computer’s speakers.

“Yes, thank you, Friday,” Tony said.

The videos finished downloading quickly, and Tony opened the video with the latest timestamp, early this morning just after 2:00am.

The video was black and white and rather grainy, but Bucky could make out your figure walking down the sidewalk, face pointed to the ground. He wanted to call through the computer screen at you to look up when a black limo with its headlights off pulled into the frame, but it would have been pointless. It was already done. So he and Tony watched in helpless horror as a large man crept out of the car, snuck up behind you, and seemed to stab you in the neck with something, most likely a tranq syringe. Your body went limp in a matter of seconds before the man slung you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried you into the back of the limo.

“Friday, I want you to trace the limo in this last file. Follow it indefinitely. I want to know where it goes even after it takes them to whatever pier their boat left from.”

“I’m on it, boss.” Tony looked down at his computer as the video replayed on a loop. He closed the laptop with a snap.

He and Bucky both sat in silence for a few long moments, the low hum of the jet helping to keep it from becoming an awkward silence, before Tony finally spoke up, “So what happened between you and Y/N?”

Bucky’s heart practically leapt into his throat. He looked over at Tony with a look that Tony knew all too well, one of tortured regret, before he turned his gaze to his lap. “We had a misunderstanding, and I fucked up. Let’s leave it at that.”

Tony looked up at some distant spot on the ceiling and remarked, “Hmm. That’s odd. Regardless of whatever actually happened, you both seem to think you’re at fault.”

Bucky looked up at Tony in confusion, “What are talking about?”

Tony, rather than responding, pulled out his phone, opened up your message, and showed it to Bucky.

Bucky’s eyes scanned the message, his stomach clenching as he read the line about the men being armed. But he paused when he got to the end.

_Please tell Bucky I’m so sorry._

That was odd. What could you be sorry about? He was the one that instigated the kissing and everything else that had followed. You had frozen when it became too much. You had left the tower, no doubt disgusted with Bucky’s unwanted advances. Right? What was he missing? He looked down at the message again as if to make sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him.

_Please tell Bucky I’m so sorry._

His brows furrowed as his mind spiraled down the same unhelpful trail all over again, only this time, Tony didn’t feel like watching again.

“Don’t overthink it, Barnes.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder, “We’ll get her back, easy, and then you and she can both be sorry together and apologize to each other endlessly.” His face contorted into sarcastic disgust, “Just please, promise me this. You two have always fought, which was amusing because Y/N has quite a range of insults and you don’t,” Bucky rolled his eyes as Tony continued, “Just please, don’t let apology battles become the new norm for you two. That would just be…too much.”

Before Bucky could retort, Clint called back from the cockpit, “Alright, guys, we’re on final approach, ETA is less than five minutes.”

Bucky hardened himself as went over to the weapons cabinets and grabbed his gun, knives, and ammo, doing his utmost to channel the contradictory emotionless rage of the Winter Soldier that still hummed in his veins whenever he fought.

Sam had his wings on and ready, Wanda was creating a red fog between her fingers to help her focus her powers, and Tony’s suit was assembling itself around him. Clint would hang back in the jet to extract everyone if the mission went south.

It was a daytime mission, which meant there would be no hiding from Gargan’s men once they came into view. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting you to safety, even if Bucky had to kill every last man who stood in his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, Part 5 is gonna be intense, and then Part 6? Well, I haven’t gotten that far yet. I am just extremely long winded. Also, like I said before, I’m sure there were typos and Rachel-speak. Please feel free to send me an ask if something really sticks in your craw.


	5. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I fully blame the fight scene in this chapter on the fact that I re-watched ST: Beyond this weekend…Also, there is a song linked at the scene in question. **Listen to it.** Just do it. It will make scene less…or quite possibly more…stupid. Jesus take the wheel.
> 
> As always sorry for dumb typos. I’m too lazy to edit right now.

“You want me to what?” Bucky’s voice came out flat, sounding less like a question and more like an unamused and unyielding refusal.

Tony’s head swept to the side in irritation, and were it not for the helmet, Bucky was fairly certain that he would have seen Tony’s eyes practically roll out their sockets. “I don’t _want_ you to do anything, Barnes. I _need_ you grab onto my suit, now.”

All of Bucky’s Winter-Soldier stoicism was seeming to seep from his mind at the thought of clutching onto Tony’s suit like child or something. He was overwrought at the thought of you in the hands of these murderers, yes, but he didn’t need to be humiliated on top of it all.

“Look, you’ve got two choices, Barnes. You can hold onto my front like a marsupial or hold onto my back like a baby chimpanzee. Which is it gonna be? You want to save Y/N or not?”

“Fuck! I am not clinging to your chest.” Bucky yelled as he stalked over to Tony and grabbed ahold of his shoulders from behind. 

“There ya go, baby chimp. Climb onto my back because that is so much more heterosexual and masculine. Don’t worry; I’m sure Y/N wouldn’t think any less of you regardless of which side you chose.”

When Tony reached down to pull Bucky’s legs around his middle, Bucky sent his metal fist flying into the side of Tony’s helmet. “What the fuck are you doing, Stark?”

“Well, you need to have a good grip. You want to fall into the middle of the Atlantic?” Tony scoffed.

Bucky grumbled, “This is fucking ridiculous Stark. I could just jump from the jet and swim to the yacht right now.” 

“Yeah, we’re three nautical miles out. I’m sure they’ll never see you coming. How could they possibly spot you swimming like a drowned rat through the fifteen-foot swells out there.” 

Clint, finally having enough of the childish bickering, called back from the pilot’s seat, “You guys, time is of the essence, right? Get a move on.”

Clint, who was struggling with the controls, had the quinjet hovering dangerously close to the rising swells of the ocean, just below the radar of the yacht and just far enough away that it dipped below the horizon and out of sight. 

With Bucky still grumbling, Tony walked over to the rear hatch where Wanda and Sam were waiting. The plan was simple. Tony and Sam, with Bucky and Wanda as passengers, would jump from the plane and fly in low from behind the yacht where they were less likely to be spotted. Once close enough, Wanda would use her powers to float onto the boat and Tony would carry Bucky all the way to the deck. From there, it was business as usual: subdue the criminals as non-lethally as possible and save you.

Tony pulled up the navigation screen in his suit and locked in his flight path before, calling out, “Okay, team. Let’s do this!” And with that he and Sam jumped from the plane and began flying in low toward the yacht.

* * *

“Alright, now I’ve been plenty patient with you. What is the identity of Spiderman?” Gargan growled from him seat as you retook yours.

You paused for a second, looking down at the case full of money. You needed to see if you could stall a little longer. “Seven hundred thousand, you say? I hate to make you wait, but I really feel like I should count this. It would be so easy for you to stiff me by a couple thousand bucks, and I wouldn’t ever know until you’d gotten your information.” Wrong answer. 

It was like you flipped a switch. Gargan went from cool and menacing to full on violent anger in instant, as he leapt from the couch, hand pulling his pistol from its holster. “You think I’m fucking kidding around? Your life is worth nothing to me.” He shoved the end of the barrel under your chin, pointing upward. “You tell me what I need to know or I will pull this fucking trigger. There are plenty of normal, weak people working for Stark who have information too. I got a whole list. So if you think you can bargain with your life, try me.”

You kept your face as impassive as possible, but you could feel your pulse rapidly pounding in the veins of your forehead and throat. Playtime was over. You had to give him something. You quickly estimated that if Tony had left when he got your message, it would probably take one of his quinjets maybe an hour to catch up with the significantly slower yacht depending on how far out from the coast you actually were. An hour. You needed an hour, maybe less given how much time you wasted in the bathroom, or at least you hoped that was right. That was what you were going to bet your life on: a flimsy estimation and blind hope. 

But you couldn’t concede all your power either, so you calmly pressed your fingers to the side of the barrel, gently pushing it from your throat, “Remove the gun, and I’ll talk. Now.”

He gave the gun one final push into your flesh before jerking it away. 

You swallowed and prayed that neither he nor any of his men had ever watched the Disney Channel and that their googling skills were not up to snuff. 

“The person you’re looking for is named Victor Baxter.” This was, of course, the father of Raven from the show, _That’s So Raven_ , and not Peter Parker. You took a measured breath, willing the quiver in your voice to go away, “He’s a completely normal guy with a family. He’s a chef at a restaurant in Queens. Can’t remember the name though.” You did in fact remember the name of Victor Baxter’s restaurant, The Chill Grill, but the last thing you needed was to give Gargan and his men an even quicker route to discovering your lie. One google search of the restaurant with no Yelp reviews would be enough to raise several red flags. “That’s all I know. You can imagine that they’re pretty hush hush about his identity. 

With a nod to Marco, who pulled out a small iPad, Gargan turned his eyes back to you. “If we find out you’ve been lying, don’t even worry about the money. It’s nothing to me. I’ll line your coffin with it. Got it?”

You kept your breathing as even as possible, not breaking eye contact with Gargan as he sat back down on his chair, gun still in hand, his finger tapping the trigger.

After a few long minutes, he grumbled to Marco, “What’s the hold up?”

“Sorry, boss. The signal is slow. I’m still trying to open the browser. I keep getting that little spinning rainbow pinwheel.” Marco looked up from his screen meekly.

Gargan rolled his eyes, biting back a snarl, before looking to you with a smirk and saying sarcastically, “One of the downsides of keeping this yacht off the grid: no 4G wireless out here.” He turned back to Marco continuing, “Quit fucking with it. Go down and see if Holbrook can speed it up at all.”

You watched the whole interaction from the couch, still not sure if you were moments from death or if you had actually managed to buy yourself some precious time. You looked at the clock on the wall. If you had been right in your wait time estimation, you still needed just over thirty minutes. You looked back at Gargan who was still staring at you unblinkingly, his finger still fidgeting with the trigger.

“Feel free to count your money now,” he gestured his free hand to the still open case. 

You took a shaky shallow breath, “I’ll worry about that later.” Even though the repetition of counting might actually help compose yourself, getting out of this room sounded even more calming. “Actually, can I go out on the deck? I’m still feeling a bit sick from the tranquilizer, and I think some fresh air would do me good.”

Gargan squinted his eyes, looking you up and down before finally saying, “Sure. Just know that I’ve got my men on guard, and if they see you do anything suspicious, they won’t even shoot. They’ll just throw you off the side of the boat and let the open ocean finish you off. Got it?” He smiled at you, the ice never leaving his eyes.

You gave him a humorless grin yourself, replying, “What a generous host you are. Luckily for me, I value my life more than I do ‘suspicious’ activities.” You stood from the couch, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…” You trailed off, seeing Gargan’s glare, and quickly made your exit though a door that led onto the wide deck facing the bow of the ship.

As soon as the first salty chill breeze hit your face, you inhaled deeply, relishing in the splash of sunshine that peeked out from behind the cloud dappled sky. You stood there several minutes, eyes closed, just breathing deeply the fresh clean air before you finally opened your eyes and took in your surroundings. 

Still going on the hopeful assumption that Tony and the others were coming to find you, you needed to scope out potential hiding spots for if a fight inevitably broke out. If there was one thing you’d learned in the past few months of training with Natasha and Steve, it was that you sucked at fighting and would probably get yourself killed if you got involved. 

You spotted a large entertainment cabinet to the side of the room you’d been in. Under the almost honest guise of simple curiosity, you ambled over with an air of bored disinterest, and turned the small brass key to open the wooden doors. They were thin, probably wouldn’t stop a bullet, but they might at least slow it down. And there was ample space to curl up at least. 

Wanting to keep up the façade of curiosity, you fiddled with some of the controls, the docking station, and the small touch screen on the stereo system. 

One of his men finally spotted you and called over, “Hey, that’s enough. Leave it.”

You closed the doors and held your hands up innocently, “Sorry, just a tech nerd here.” You casually walked away, still looking around. After you had combed the front of the boat for any potential hiding spots, noting two more promising areas, you slowly walked around the deck to the stern side.

There were mostly electrical and utility panels, not exactly ideal places to stuff yourself. You’d just have to count on getting to one of the spots up front should there be a fight. 

And at that thought, your chest constricted your breath momentarily. Were you just being an idiot, hoping that they were either coming in the time you had estimated or, worse yet, at all? What if Tony hadn’t gotten your text? What if they were still back at the tower planning? Should you have just given them Peter’s name and where he was in hiding and hoped that he, Steve, and Natasha could fight off whoever might come for them? What if no one came to get you, Gargan found out that you’d given him the name of a Disney character, and he killed you? What if this was really it?

Your breath was quickening and beginning to come in shallower and shallower gasps. You leant your whole weight against the railing and looked down into the white churned water leaving the propellers. You couldn’t give into such panicked thoughts. Not yet. You had to hold out on the hope that Tony was coming for you. You had to keep calm.

You kept a reassuring mantra going in your mind until you finally started to come down from your panic. Taking a deep breath, you finally looked up from the water and let your eyes fall on the horizon. You barely noticed a small flicker of red light, blinking your eyes several times. You must have been seeing spots after nearly hyperventilating. Then you caught another red flash. You gently reached up and rubbed your eyes with the tips of your fingers and squinted at the spot on the horizon, and then you finally really saw it. 

It was just a red and gold speck on the horizon, but it had to be him. It had to be. You stood there a moment longer, watching the speck grow to the size of a crumb, then a small pebble. Then you spied a smaller gray smudge next to the red and gold spot. Maybe it was Sam’s Falcon suit? You were past the point of doubt now. They really were coming for you. 

Your heart swelled with renewed hope and relief. But your moment was short lived when you peeked behind you at the lookout deck above you and saw several of Gargan’s men scanning the horizon. If they spotted Tony and Sam, they would open fire, and while Tony’s suit was bullet proof, Sam’s skin was far from it. You needed to create a diversion, something to draw their attention from the rear of the ship, something that would also hide the sounds of Tony’s suit as it got closer.

And like Jim Kirk himself, a wry smile slowly took hold of your whole face as you quickly faced toward the ocean again, covertly reaching down the front of your sweater and pulling out your phone. There was hardly any battery left, and you knew it would need a moment to charge before you could use it again. You quickly pulled up your favorite playlist and readied it to shuffle before tucking your phone back into your bra. 

You strolled back to the bow deck and over to the entertainment cabinet with deliberate but unhurried steps. You unlocked and opened the cabinet, forcing yourself not to look around at the men: if you acted suspicious and guilty, they would call you out, but if you acted like you knew what you were doing, then it might throw them off guard for at least a few moments. And a few moments were all you needed. You plugged your phone into the docking station and watched as it began to charge for a moment until your actions were interrupted by a few sets of feet walking up behind you where they stopped. 

Gargan’s voice sent a chill down your spine but you did not turn from your task. “What did I say about acting suspicious? Turn around because we need to talk about this Victor Baxter. Apparently, you thought you could lie to me? In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? I hope you have a brilliant escape plan because otherwise you are fucking dead, and I’m not gonna make it quick, sweetheart.”

Okay, it was now or never. You swallowed nervously as you hit play, locked the doors, and threw the small key over Gargan’s head and over the side of the boat into the miles deep water. You had failed to check the volume, and it must have been set to eleven because as the key was cresting the arc of its fall, the boat’s speakers exploded with [Rick James’ “You and I.” ](https://youtu.be/dWZkxYamLUs)

The chaos that ensued was palpable and only exacerbated by the fact that in order to be heard, every single one of Gargan’s men were all screaming and yelling at each other as they tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Gargan, who had been momentarily distracted by the key flying over his head, immediately snapped his face back you as you backed up against the cabinet. The song continued to play. This distraction had better be worth it was your only thought as your knees began to shake.

Gargan signaled to Marco with a shake of his head, who then walked over and grabbed you roughly by your neck and pulled you away. Gargan pulled out his gun, but instead of pointing it at you, he pointed it at the cabinet doors and shot the lock out.

Marco began dragging you toward one of the doors to the room where you had been held previously, as Gargan made his way to the cabinet and turned off the stereo. 

“Now,” Gargan said in an uncomfortably calm voice as he turned around to face you and, without skipping a beat, shot you in your right thigh, “Where were we?” 

You cried out more from surprise and fear than in pain, but your ears were ringing so loudly from the gunshot that you could hardly hear your own voice. An odd numbness spread over your leg as your body rushed with endorphins, and your knees buckled under the weight of your own body. Gargan walked toward you with a slow strut as Marco held you upright, still grabbing you by the back of your neck in a vicelike grip. 

The ringing in your ears gave way to a low buzzing sound as Gargan taunted you. “You really didn’t know who you were messing with did you? I’ve killed cops. Do you really think I’m gonna think twice about killing you?” His eyes glinted threateningly as he continued to circle you like a wolf sizing up its prey, raising his gun and pointing it at your other leg. 

The buzzing sound was now escalating to a low roar, and Gargan pulled his attention away from you just long enough to bark out, “What the hell is that noise? Check the speakers for feedback. Can’t fucking stand that any longer!”

You were beginning to feel dizzy.

One of his men, ducked down for a moment before popping back up and saying, “Boss, the whole system is off. It’s not from the speakers.”

“Then find the source of the sound and fix it!” Gargan turned his eyes back to you, rolling them in mock exasperation as he continued to smile at you, “My men aren’t the smartest you’ll meet, but someone’s got to look after them, you know?”

You would have glared at him were it not for the fact that you were finding it harder and harder to get enough air. Your breaths were coming in shallow and rapid gasps now, and you could feel your heart fluttering faster and faster as warm sticky blood continued to leak down the side of your leg. 

Gargan opened his mouth to taunt you further, when you felt a rush of wind at your back, and you smiled through your panic because you knew the source of the warm breeze. 

It all happened in less than a second. You felt the wind, Gargan’s eyes shot up in surprise, and he was instantly bowled over by a large body falling from the sky. You saw the glint of gunmetal black and gold as you summoned what little remaining strength you had to reach back and elbow Marco right in the nuts with all your might.

He released his hold on you and you crumpled to the ground weakly. Your eyes felt heavy but you could hear Tony’s sarcastic banter as he effortlessly took out Marco and several other men with his repulsor blasts. 

“Don’t you know it’s rude to turn off someone else’s music? This is truly disappointing, especially because I love Rick James.” Tony’s voice filled you with relief and exasperation. How could that man find the time to still be sarcastic in the middle of a fight?

You smiled faintly as you closed your eyes and let your head fall back onto the floor, which you knew in the back of your mind was not a wise choice, but the urge to relax and take a nap was far too tempting to ignore. You weakly reached down and tried to put pressure on the wound. But you were so tired, and pressure shot pain up and down the whole right side of your body. 

You heard rather than saw the action around you. Men were shouting. Some of them were the voices of Gargan’s men, and others sounded like Sam or Wanda or Tony. The sounds of punching was sometimes followed by an occasional splash. And the gunshots. At first there seemed to be an endless barrage of gunshots, but as the second and minutes ticked by, they became fewer and more distant, sometimes coming from below deck. 

With your eyes still closed you pressed down on your leg again after you realized that your hand had slipped away at some point in the last few minutes without you noticing it.

You could hear the sound of loud engines approaching.

You felt the same as when you had awoken all those hours earlier on the couch in front of Gargan: dizzy, drowsy, nauseated, weak, and disoriented. You almost wondered if any of this with the stalling for time, Rick James, and the fight had actually happened. Maybe it had all been a fever dream and you would wake up in your room or back on that damn white couch. Your mind was beginning to spin increasingly wild and anxious thoughts, and your small remaining sliver of coherent thought knew that it was shock and delirium from the gunshot and blood loss. 

But your thoughts were interrupted as you heard Tony’s voice call out as you were picked up by a pair of hard metal arms, “Not so fast there, pumpkin. You better get those eyes open. Besides, you’re hardly dying. Just a flesh wound.” You could hear the very real concern in his voice despite his flippant teasing.

You chuckled feebly, responding, “Tis but a scratch, eh?” 

“Alright enough with movie quotes or you’re gonna have to get into the quinjet on your own.” 

He gently eased you onto a cot that folded out of the wall. You were in the quinjet now, apparently. You could hear the sounds of his suit disassembling and feel Wanda’s hand cutting up the length of your leggings. You squinted at the painful pressure of the bandage she was applying. Your eyes were still so very, very heavy.

You hissed at the sudden cold swab of alcohol on the inside of your forearm and the squeeze of a band around your upper arm. When you finally forced your eyes open, you could see that Tony had inserted an IV of saline solution into your arm.

“No blood bags for me, huh?” You tried to joke, but your words were slurred slightly.

Tony, who had his chin resting in his hands, looked up and forced a smile, “Look, me inserting an IV is one thing, but performing a blood transfusion? Yeah, I’d rather not accidentally kill you today, not after we went to all that effort to save you, I mean.”

You laughed softly through your nose as you looked around. “Where’s Sam? And I thought I saw Barnes too.”

“So he’s back to Barnes again, huh?” You frowned at his meaning, but he just shook his head and continued, “He and Sam are bringing the boat with the prisoners in. Don’t worry they are all either dead, severely injured, or covered in so many zip ties that they’ll need a chainsaw to get loose. I wanted to leave Wanda there as another added layer of security, but she wasn’t about to leave your side.”

You looked down to where she was standing at the foot of your cot, gently washing away the blood from your leg with a wet cloth. You smiled your thanks.

“Don’t worry kiddo, you’re going to be fine.” Tony patted you gently on the shoulder as you let out a weary sigh.

“Tony, remember how I told you when I first got to the tower that I didn’t want to be called ‘Sport’ or ‘Champ’ or any other patronizing nicknames because I’m the newbie? Remember how I even showed you that scene from the first _Men in Black_ to prove how serious I was? Remember that?”

“Point taken there, Tiger. No more Kiddo from here on out. Cross my heart,” he looked at you with the biggest shit eating grin.

“Ass.” You very reluctantly smiled at him.

“Alright, your heart rate is levelling out some and Wanda has gotten the bleeding to stop, so I think we’re out of danger. Now, why don’t you go ahead and lay back. Get some rest.” 

You didn’t need to be told twice. You gratefully closed your eyes and let your mind and body finally and truly rest, the low hum of the quinjet keeping your mind from wandering to thoughts of your leg, your near-death experience, or the uncomfortable situation with Bucky that had led to this whole mess to begin with. Okay, maybe your mind wandered a little bit for a few seconds, but unconsciousness won out in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I promise there’s probably only like 2 [hundred] parts left in this ‘one-shot.’ Also, in case anyone cares, I almost had reader slap Marco and do the whole [Chappelle Show](https://youtu.be/qPr-xsQvhgw) ‘what did the five fingers say to the face? SLAP’ bit, but even I can recognize when something is too ridiculous. Sigh.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading. And for people who have given me comments and kudos, know that I see and I LOVE you!


	6. Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so there’s a _**brief**_ mention of Black Panther stuff in here (it’s barely anything tbh), but it’s definitely **not a spoiler** because I haven’t even seen it yet; and as far as I can tell it’s already common knowledge. It’s based on the snippets of the [IW prequel comic thing](http://kittyseb.tumblr.com/post/170087933595/select-panels-from-avengers-infinity-war-prelude)? IDK how comics work. I just didn’t want anyone to panic when they saw Shuri’s name.
> 
> Also, I kind of don’t really like how this chapter turned out, but oh well, is what it is...

When he leaned his head back on the headrest, Bucky’s eyes closed almost involuntarily, the fatigue of the last week finally catching up with him as the passing of the city lights hypnotized him. Not even the pervasive stomach butterflies and the slight tingling in his chest could keep them open, nor could the flashes of images and memories of guns, and blood, and violence that normally would set his teeth on edge.

He could remember clinging to the back of Tony’s suit and feeling utterly ridiculous about it. That was until he saw you. All he could see was the back of your head, a hand around the back of your neck, a small but growing pool of blood at your feet, the barrel of a gun pointed at you, and the man’s smirking face.

And like that his vision went seemed to fog over. He wasn’t Bucky anymore, but neither was he the Winter Soldier. Shuri had removed his triggers and, therefore, the Soldier’s control over Bucky’s mind, but that didn’t take away all the memories, the training, or that almost uncontrollable fear mixed with rage that sometimes overpowered his rationality in the heat of a battle or the depths of a nightmare. The Soldier may have been made impotent, but he was still there, like the devil on his shoulder, egging him on from the sidelines.

He had leapt from Tony’s back rather than waiting to be let down, letting his combined weight and velocity be the first weapon he used. He would make sure that Gargan would never smirk again. It had taken every remaining shred of restraint to not kill Gargan and his men to save them for questioning and prison, but that did not mean he had refrained from injuring them indiscriminately. The remainder of the fight became a blur of gunshots and the power of his metal arm as he swept the lower decks for any more of the men who would have harmed you.

By the time the man had fallen and he had come out of his rage, you were gone, and Sam was speaking to him in a low tone, a hand brushing the top of shoulder ever so lightly, in an attempt to calm him and bring him down. When he was finally cognizant enough to actually hear and understand Sam’s words, he was filled with a sense of regret that blossomed deep in his gut and spread across his chest and into every nerve.

You were already speeding off to Manhattan in the quinjet. Sam said that based on the amount of bleeding that the bullet had likely nicked a major vein or artery but that Wanda could stem the bleeding with her powers rather than resorting to a tourniquet. That detail offered cold comfort to Bucky when he returned to the topside and saw the unsettling large pool of blood you had left behind.

He should have been there for you. He should have held you, helped to stop the bleeding, and whispered words of comfort in your ears. But he hadn’t. He had let his anger rule his actions, and now he would be separated from you again. 

“Buckaroo, we’re almost there,” Sam said from the driver’s seat, pulling Bucky out of his half dream, half reverie.

“How many times have I told you not to call me that, Chickadee,” Bucky rolled his eyes, teasing back.

Sam just shook his head and groaned, “Good one, Bucky. Mind if I make a quick stop at Bed, Bath, and Beyond so that I can buy a new pillow to cry into?”

Bucky smiled a toothy grin, and it was actually genuine for the first time in a while. Sam had a way of doing that, making it easy to smile. But his smile dropped slightly as Sam then turned into the garage under the tower. He could feel the stomach butterflies spread to the muscles of his thighs and right arm, making them feel weak and trembling. It was equal parts excitement and dread, seeing you again.

Would you still be mad at him? He had picked up his phone, easily, a hundred times each night to send you a text, but every time his fingers hovered over the keyboard, his eyes would inevitably settle on your last exchange.

> **Him:** Y/N. You’re not in your room. Please, we need to talk.
> 
> **Doll:** Read 12:47am.

And each time he read it, he would squint his eyes with a groan, close the message, and throw his phone down as if it had burned him.

He just hoped that his resolve would hold tonight, that despite his numerous misgivings and whatever insults and anger you might throw at him, he would have the strength to take your anger long enough to apologize to you about that night, which was still haunting him.

* * *

“Goddammit,” you grunted as you bent over, stretching your arm and fingers to their limits in a struggling attempt to reach your loofah that had fallen to the ground.

Finally giving up, you heaved yourself out of the teakwood chair and hobbled over to retrieve it from the corner of your shower where it had fallen. It was certainly not your most dignified moment, spreading your legs and crouching down like a giraffe at a watering hole, doing your damnedest to keep the stream of water away from your splinted leg. 

You pulled yourself back up and plopped gently back onto the smooth wood seat, and picked up where you left off. Desperately trying to find the least painful way to wash under your thighs and butt without aggravating your leg. The chair made it easier to keep the water from your leg, but because the plastic bag could only be cinched so tightly around your thigh before you began to cut off circulation, try as you might, there always seemed to be a few rogue drips of water that made it through the barrier. 

You felt a bit foolish, sitting there in a fancy teakwood chair in your marble shower; it just seemed foolishly extravagant. When your attending doctor had suggested putting a chair in your shower to make it easier on your leg, you had said you’d head over to the nearest garden store and just get some crappy lawn chair. But Tony, ever the mother hen, would not let you hobble on crutches anywhere, especially while still hopped up on the pain meds from your surgery. He had said he would take care of it with one of those unsettling glints in his eyes. The following morning when you’d been released from the medical wing and saw the luxury chair in your shower, you felt a pang of embarrassment about such a ridiculous accessory. Leave it to Tony to choose a $200 teakwood chair over a $10 lawn chair on clearance.

Finally cleaned as best as you could, you stood and turned off the water and bent your body to retrieve your towel from the hook outside the shower door, wincing slightly as the maneuver sent a shockwave up and down your leg.

According to the doctor the bullet had struck your femur just above your knee, and it was one of the several resultant bone fragments that had punctured your femoral artery, causing the excessive and downright dangerous levels of bleeding. So here you were, stuck wearing a splint that ran from your toes to the very top of your thigh for a total of six weeks, one down and five to go.

Once you had toweled off sufficiently, you gingerly stepped out of the stall, reaching for your crutches. After some very awkward maneuvering you finally made it to the sanctuary and security of your bed and your waiting clean change of clothes. It had been your first real shower since you’d been released from the medical wing the previous week, having previously opted for sponge baths rather than the trauma of that goddamned shower chair.

But today you wanted to actually clean up properly. You couldn’t wear any of your flattering jeans or cute tops, loose gym shorts being the only bottoms that could fit over your bulky splint, but you could at least smell nice and wear a clean shirt for when you finally talked with Bucky. 

Your stomach flip flopped at the thought. Sam and Bucky would be returning sometime that night, having spent the last week finishing the mission and tracking down any criminals remotely connected to Gargan, including the ones Friday had traced with the traffic cams when they had been on the jet to get you.

Bucky and Sam hadn’t given much indication of what time exactly they’d be rolling in, so you weren’t sure if or when you would have the chance to see Bucky that night. You were also acutely aware that between the post mission fatigue and exasperation with the debriefing, he might just head straight for his room for a shower and the promise of a hibernation sleep after the debrief. 

Your mind continued to wander as you counted out your antibiotics and a few over the counter painkillers, settling on the one thought that had been haunting and tormenting you all week: what if Bucky didn’t want to see you? Sure, he’d sent you that text begging to talk you before you got snatched away by Gargan, but you’d responded in a less than cordial manner. And the events leading up to that moment, the way he had looked at you as he practically ran out of his room. Those thoughts still made your stomach clench painfully. And you had been too anxious to text him in the last week, and your nerves seemed well founded since he hadn’t sent you a text the whole week either.

You spent the day of waiting picking up and setting down your knitting, a book, your laptop, the TV remote, all much in the same way that you had past the week restricted to sitting on couches and chairs. You had never by any means been as active or athletic as anyone on the team, but you loved your walks, a pastime you would not be able to indulge in for more than a month. To say that you were going stir crazy in your confinement was an understatement, and the anticipation of Bucky’s return was only aggravating you further.

Dinner had been a solitary affair, and you assumed that the team might have been debriefing because surely Bucky and Sam had gotten back by then even though you had not heard from anyone.

It was getting late, and you were in your room knitting a fluffy pair of socks for Wanda, hoping they would say ‘thank you for using your telekinetic powers to stop my arterial spurting’ rather than ‘I might as well have painted a terracotta flower pot for you because I am, in fact, a grandmother.’ But then again, maybe you were just overthinking it. 

The sound of doors shutting in the hallway made your head jerk up with a start. One of the doors had sound suspiciously like it had come from the direction of Bucky’s room

With a weary and pained huff, you put your knitting down and hobbled to your door as quickly as you could. Finding the hall empty, you thought you might check if the kitchen were occupied. Anything to get at least some information on Bucky’s whereabouts. So you clacked your way down the hall on your crutches in search of your teammates.

The kitchen to was empty, and you dropped into a chair at the kitchen table feeling disappointed. You were not the kind of person to seek out your teammates after missions, knowing how draining it could be for them. 

Pulling your phone out of the pocket of your gym shorts, you spent the next thirty or so minutes wasting time on the internet, stooping to the level of taking a quiz that told you what kind hamburger topping represented your personality: mayonnaise, bland and not everyone’s favorite. It was a rather harsh assessment, you felt, but then again, given your general feelings of malaise and boredom over the last week, the quiz may have had a point. You set your phone down with disgust.

Feeling a food craving coming on, no doubt the result of having seen so many pictures of greasy and carb heavy food, you got up and began rummaging through the fridge and cupboard for something to eat more out of boredom than from actual hunger.

The distant sound of knocking interrupted your search for junk food. Feeling like an ass for being so nosy, you perked up to listen, hoping that whoever it was might have something to say about Bucky or Sam.

You heard another set of knocks, followed by the sound of Bucky’s voice, which thrilled you and set your heart to pounding, “Y/N? You in there, doll?” 

He had sought you out. That was either a good sign or a horrible one. Putting the bag of popcorn back in the cupboard, you once again made your way down the hall and back to your room.

Bucky heard the sounds of clacking and heavy breathing before he saw you enter the hallway. He felt his cheeks grow hot and his breathing hitch when he saw you. Your right leg was splinted from your foot and up to your thigh where it disappeared into your gym shorts. Your face, which was aimed at the floor, was set in a concentrated pout as you maneuvered your crutches along the carpet. When you finally looked up and saw him standing at your door, you stopped. Your face was unreadable, the dim lighting in the hall not facilitating his ability to read you.

You found your steps again and continued to laboriously totter to your door until you stopped right in front of Bucky, who was looking down at you, apprehension visible in every line of his brow, his normal five-o’clock shadow now looking more like a five-day scruff.

“You’re back,” you stated lamely, wishing that you could think of something better to say. It’s not like you had spent the last week creating and practicing numerous speeches and apologies for Bucky in front of your mirror. Not at all. You looked back to his face and saw his worry lines slacken ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” he muttered softly.

You took a deep breath, “Want to come in? I guess we need to talk.” You tried to not sound scared, but somehow your voice made you sound like a scolded child. 

Bucky meanwhile, still not sure how to read you, felt his stomach twist at your words. _We need to talk._ That sentence seldom came before anything good.

You opened your door, and you and he silently walked in, both lost in thoughts of self-doubt.

You lowered yourself onto your bed, propping your right leg up on the mattress beside you while your other foot rested on the floor; Bucky sat awkwardly sat down on the edge of your desk chair, facing you. Even in your anxiety, you couldn’t help but notice how your current situation mirrored that night when you’d brought him the beers and icepack after the gym incident.

Bucky cleared his throat and gestured to your leg, “Steve told me what happened to your leg. How bad is it?”

You smiled nervously, humoring his need to make small talk before getting to business, “You know, not too bad. Sitting on the toilet’s a bitch, and the stiches itch like fleas. But on the whole, I’d say I got off pretty easy.” You nodded your head nervously, feeling like a bobble head. “How was the mission?” 

Bucky looked up at the ceiling as he thought of how to phrase it, “Successful as it could be, I suppose. We took out a lot of players in Gargan’s syndicate, but they’re like roaches; they’ll keep coming back. But Gargan is locked away, so that’s good.” He trailed off, looking back at you with guilty doe eyes. 

Okay, the niceties were dealt with, and you needed to just get it all out before you lost your nerve. And so the word vomit ensued, “Okay, I’ll just get straight to the point. I’m sorry Bucky. I’m sorry about that night when I woke you up. I knew what was coming, and I should have told you, and I didn’t, and it was unfair for me know about it but leave you in the dark, and I know you probably think I’m super shitty for doing that, and I guess that’s probably the truth, and I’m just really, really sorry.” You were practically gasping for breath by the time you finally shut up.

Bucky was silent, so you finally steeled yourself and looked up, fully expecting to see that same look of disgust painted on his face that you had seen a week ago. But it was quite the opposite. His face had a look of amused worry as he eyed you warily.

“I’m not really sure what you’re getting at? Maybe start from the top?” Bucky chanced, remembering how Tony had hinted at the fact that you, for some reason might have been just as sorry as he was. 

You took a few slow breaths, the lack of anger on Bucky’s part giving you the courage to start over and speak with more composure. “That night when I brought you a beer and the ice pack? Remember how I had a vision and said it was about an old lady crocheting or some such thing?”

Bucky nodded his head, encouraging you to continue, genuinely wanting to hear your side before telling you his.

“I lied. That’s not what my vision was about,” you paused for a few moments, “It was about you and me, about that other night, you know, when we, ah, made out and then some.” You don’t remember closing your eyes, but you found that you couldn’t open them back up as you continued, “I should have told you, but it was so embarrassing, and I guess there was some part of me that stupidly thought that it would all work itself out one way or another. I won’t pretend to know what was going through your head, but when you pulled back and left the room, I can only imagine you realized that you were being controlled like a puppet by fate.” 

You took another deep breath, and your breath caught in your throat as you finally looked up and saw his face, some intense emotion behind his eyes that you couldn’t decipher, “I’m sorry, so, so sorry. I should have told you. You had every right to know what I had seen so that you could at least have some semblance of agency in the situation. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky couldn’t exactly pin down what he was feeling. Of all the things he had imagined you would tell him or yell at him, this hadn’t even crossed his mind, that you weren’t mad at him, that you were mad at yourself the same way he was mad at himself, that you thought you had somehow used or taken advantage of him. In what plane of reality could that be possible? He had wanted you then; he wanted you still. But more to the point, if you thought he hadn’t had agency when you kissed, did that mean you felt you hadn’t had agency either? Had you not enjoyed it or wanted it but also didn’t blame him? 

“Bucky? Please say something.” Your voice, trembling slightly, pulled him out of his head.

He selfishly wanted to know your feelings before coming clean with his. “Did you feel like you were being puppetted? That it was out of your control?” 

You gulped, not sure how to answer, so you opted for a cautious response. It would kind of ruin your whole apology if you told him how you had indulgently replayed that vision in your head all hours of the days and nights, how you had looked forward to it with increasing anticipation and need with every passing day that it did not come to fruition. “I mean, to an extent, I suppose? In all honesty, I didn’t even realize it was happening at first. By the time I did, you were pulling away, and I figured you had come to some sense of realization as well; hence, you leaving like that.”

Bucky wanted to press further, your words letting a small flicker of hope ignite deep in him, but still too scared to speak himself. “Like what?”

You could barely meet his eyes. You supposed you deserved a good grilling given how you’d withheld so much for so long, “Like you hated me.”

Bucky felt his chest squeeze guiltily, seeing just how hard it was for you to talk about this. He jumped up from the chair and awkwardly knelt in front of you on the floor. It was his turn to come clean, “I could never hate you, doll. I pulled away like I did because I was mad at myself.”

“What? Why?” You shook your head, taken off guard, not understanding what he was getting at.

“I felt you tense up, and I thought I had taken things too far. I thought I was taking advantage of you after you came in and helped me, but it sounds like that wasn’t the case?” Seeing your look of pleasant surprise, he felt a little braver, “With or without your vision, I would have done the same thing.” His voice was barely a whisper as he finished, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long.”

Your eyes shot up to his, and you were sure you were about to be the first Avenger to have a heart attack, “What? Okay, your turn to start from the top.” You were leaning down closer to him now, your anxiety slowly turning to anticipation.

Bucky could see the change in your demeanor, and finally allowed himself to smile slightly, “Remember how I told you that the reason I never talked to you was because I was worried you wouldn’t like me? There might have been a bit more to it than that,” he looked at you meaningfully, “Believe me when I tell you that I don’t regret what happened after you woke me up, that is, unless you do. Do you?”

Your brain felt like an old computer, the hard drive scraping and scratching noisily as it tried to keep up. You couldn’t find you voice, so you just pitifully shook your head.

Bucky squinted in confusion, as he cautioned, “No, you regretted it, or no, you didn’t?”

You swallowed, barely eking out, “No I didn’t.”

You and he both knew that there were still a hundred questions that hadn’t been answered, but the only question that mattered was just resolved. Whatever may have led to that moment when Bucky woke and sprang into your arms, neither of you regretted what had followed. Neither of you had wanted it to end, and both of you had established weeks ago that you were both idiots when it came to each other. 

Bucky wanted you, and you wanted him more than anything. His supposed rejection had stung so painfully because of how badly you had wanted and needed him, because you had wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in his embrace, imagining your skin touching his every night this past week when you had gone to bed alone.

And now here you were. Looking at him looking at you, wondering if your eyes held the same affection, the same lusty gleam as his. And just as before, you both were drawn to the other, Bucky stretching up from his kneeling position on the floor and you leaning down to him, lips meeting in the middle. 

This time, however, the kiss was interrupted almost as soon as it had begun.

“Ow, fuck,” you gasped.

“Shit, doll, what did I do?” Bucky asked with concern, fearing that the last thirty seconds of the conversation had all been in his head.

Then he saw your pained grimace as your hands clutched at the middle of your leg, groaning, “You didn’t do anything, Bucky. I was shot.”

His sigh of relief was cut short by you slapping him in the chest with the back of your hand, “What was that for?” He asked indignantly.

You scoffed, still reeling in pain from having twisted your leg, “I’m clutching at my leg in pain, and you look like you’ve just heard the best news of your life, ass.”

He let out a nervous chuckle, “No, it’s not that, doll. I just thought again that maybe I had kissed you and you didn’t want it. I was glad you weren’t rejecting me.”

You shook your head with an irritated laugh, “Here, let me just get my leg down, so that I don’t twist it like that again.” You gently picked up your leg with both hands, setting your foot on the ground and tucking your other leg under you as Bucky joined you on the bed on your left, wearing a stupid grin the whole time, while you settled into a more comfortable position.

He gently reached up and cupped your cheek with his metal hand, the gold seems gleaming beneath the gunmetal black. He looked you in the eye, his foolish grin softening, that look in his eyes rekindling as he felt your burning hot cheek beneath his fingers. “Okay, now where were we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, I think yall know what’s coming up next. I can’t decide if Part 7 will be it, or if I’ll add an epilogue after that? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. And sorry for the delay; I just had a garbage week.


	7. Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot of fluff and shit. There’s only going to be one more part, and it will be actual smut, finally.

_He looked you in the eye, his foolish grin softening, that look in his eyes rekindling as he felt your burning hot cheek beneath his fingers. “Okay, now where were we?”_

Normally, you might have rolled your eyes at how cheesy he was being, but before you could even think to respond, his lips were crashing onto yours. All the pent-up tension of the past weeks and months he poured into that kiss, and you reciprocated in kind.

You almost couldn’t believe it was finally happening, and something about this time felt more real, more physical than his almost dreamlike embrace you’d felt the previous week. You reached up with your right hand, clutching his cool metal fingers on your cheek, pressing him more firmly onto your skin as if you make sure he wouldn’t disappear again. With your other hand, you grabbed the front of his shirt pulling him into you, pulling him deeper into the kiss, wanting all that you were to stay wrapped in him, to be a part of him.

He must have sensed your need because he then broke away from you just long enough to ever so gently pull your splinted right leg up onto the mattress, making sure it was safely and securely on the bed and not in danger of getting wrenched or twisted. You could feel that familiar heat pooling in your gut, across your thighs, and over your hips as his left knee slipped to rest between your thighs. Bucky’s flesh hand wrapped around your back just below your waist pulling you impossibly closer to him, but it still wasn’t close enough, never could be. 

You could sense the extreme restraint he was exercising with the way his body quivered with need as you slipped your tongue into his mouth, tasting him, drinking him in. You could feel how taut the muscles in his back were as you slipped your other hand under his shirt and dug your fingers into his flesh with soft needy pressure. You could feel goosebumps form on the back of his neck as you whispered into his ear, “Bucky, please, I want you.”

Then suddenly he wasn’t holding back any more. You couldn’t help your wanton moan as he pressed his thigh up against your crotch with delicious friction and pushed you onto your back, his lips now roaming down the side of your throat as he whimpered your name against your skin.

“Oh god, Bucky—” The words died in your throat as rational thought fled your mind, turning what might have been coherent words into a simpering mess of syllables.

Bucky just hummed contentedly into soft flesh below your collarbone at having elicited such a reaction from you, the vibration of his voice in his lips tickling the delicate skin there. You could feel him growing hard through his sweatpants as he continued rutting his thigh against you. 

You tilted your hips upward to meet his thrusts but immediately recoiled in pain, a string of cuss words flying out of your mouth in rapid succession.

Bucky, practically levitating off of you, jumped backward up the bed with urgency, “Shit! Y/N! Are you okay?” He yelled, his face fraught with concern and confusion.

You let out a disappointed and pained whimper as you sat up on your elbows and reached for your leg, “I think I tried to bend my knee through the splint.” You chuckled nervously when you finally looked up and saw Bucky’s comically alarmed expression, “I’m okay,” you reassured him, gesturing him to come back toward you, “I guess I’ll just have to be a lazy bottom until I get all healed up.”

Bucky looked like he wanted to laugh as he continued to kneel just out of reach, but as he chewed his lip in anxious thought, you could tell you weren’t going like what he had to say.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” he looked at you through his lashes uneasily.

You felt your stomach drop. Was he really rejecting you again? “What? Bucky? I thought we talked it through; I thought you wanted this.”

Bucky’s face melted with realization, and he scooted back up to you, pointedly avoiding your legs, which were still stretched out in front of you, “That’s not what I meant. I do want this, you, more than anything, but…” He trailed off looking at you pleadingly, and you finally figured out what he was trying to say.

“But you think this is too fast,” you stated more than asked. You couldn’t help but feel and look a little disappointed, but you reached over and took his right hand with understanding.

He leaned his head forward into your shoulder as he spoke, letting you weave your fingers with his, “It’s just that you and I don’t have the best track record for talking things out or communicating well, obviously, so maybe we should take your leg as a sign and wait until we’ve, y’know, talked and actually gotten to know each other outside of our arguements.”

You pressed your cheek to the top of his head and sighed. Damn him for being so right all of a sudden, “Yeah, you’re probably right. Besides we work together, and, shit, live next door to each other. It’s probably best that we don’t rush into anything, especially given our proclivity to…Well, I don’t need rehash our entire history or fighting, do I?”

You could feel his lips smile against the skin on your shoulder, “Nah, I think that’s best left in the past.” He finally lifted his head up and looked at you, a dreamy smile in place, “I want to do this right, Y/N.”

You couldn’t help smiling in return. Sure, your libido was still wound up, but you couldn’t deny that him sitting next to you, smiling at you, talking about something more than just sex was more than making up for it. “Okay, so how do we do this? Like go on dates or something?”

Bucky’s eyes lit up, “We can do that. We can also just hang around here, just as long as we’re talking and spending time with each other. And when your splint comes off, then we can take it from there? I mean, assuming you and I are still…” Even in the dim lighting, you could see his cheeks flush slightly at his own words as he trailed off looking down.

You had to take the bait, “Aw, Barnes. Do you want to spend time with me? Do you have a crush on me? Aww—” His unimpressed eyes were enough to make you shut up with a rueful smile, “It’s okay, I have a crush on you too.”

He scoffed but smiled, “You think I don’t know that? You’re the one having x-rated visions of me.”

You gave him your best resting bitch face, “You’re lucky that I’m injured right now, and also incredibly weak otherwise, or I would wipe that smile right off your face right now.” 

“Shh, doll,” he smiled, ignoring your irritation, “Let’s just make out now and worry about talking tomorrow. Just don’t move your leg, okay?”

You rolled your eyes at him, but just as quickly, your frown melted as his breath wafted over you and his lips met yours.

“Reluctant lazy bottom, huh?” Bucky laughed against your lips after a few minutes of kissing, “What position do you normally like?”

You would have said something snarky were it not for the sudden rush of blood to your head and hips as Bucky tugged lightly at your bottom lip with his teeth.

* * *

“I could take you out to a nice restaurant after this?” Bucky whispered from his seat next to you at the long table, “There’s a nice little French place just a few blocks south.”

You grimaced into your coffee, cutting Bucky off, “Ugh, that sounds awful.”

He reared his head back in exasperation and turned toward you, his whisper elevating to a low voice, “What? What part of that sounds awful?”

“All of it?” You squinted your eyes at him, slightly regretting the tone that seeped through your lowered voice, “It’s just so banal. Are you going to buy me flowers and ask if the restaurant pager buzzes or lights up to kill time?”

His eyes went slack with displeasure, “Well, I’m open to suggestions.”

“Well, I don’t know. Can’t we just hand out and like binge Netflix and get drunk or something?” You huffed, rubbing at your eyes.

“You wanna talk about banal—” He was cut off by the sound of someone loudly clearing his throat.

Steve looked at you both from the head of the meeting room in obvious irritation, “Do you two want to save this for later, or do you think your dinner plans might be pertinent to the mission briefing?” You and Bucky looked at Steve then the rest of the team awkwardly, having almost forgotten where you both were.

You flicked at Bucky’s thigh from under the table. He flinched and then smirked at you as if to say he would get you back later.

Steve looked around as everyone settled back into the meeting, “So it’s just business as usual. Bucky, Nat, Sam, and I will all split up and infiltrate the warehouse. Sam and Bucky will act as lookouts and guard the entrances, and I will go in and grab the case while Natasha hacks their network and gets tracers on the shipping containers. We meet back at the safe house and then follow the weapons shipment to its destination, call for back up, and attack when the deal goes through. We’ll all be back in about a week, give or take. Then, and only then, can Bucky and Y/N go on their banal French dinner date. Wheels up in two hours after we finish briefing.” You sank lower in your chair, but rolled your eyes anyway.

Steve was right; the date would have to wait until they got back a week or so from now. You sighed as you hobbled on your crutches with less discomfort than you had done in weeks past, following Bucky to his room to help him pack. 

It had been three weeks since you and he decided to take things slow, four since you’d been shot and splinted up. Only two weeks left until the splint came off and you could finally quit with the bouncing around dates and just jump on Bucky in bed, not that you were marking off days on your calendar or anything like that…

Overall, the last three weeks had been enjoyable, especially at first. Getting to finally really get to know Bucky made you fall for him a little more with each day. You finally were getting to see the parts of him that he kept hidden under the layers of sarcasm and braggadocio. You loved to see the way his eyes went misty and dreamy when you pulled up your newly created Big Band Jazz station on Pandora. Seeing his face light up a little when you took him to a restaurant with flavors he had never tasted before was also a treat. 

You were also getting to see just how keenly attuned he was to his emotions, despite his desperate attempts to constantly play it cool. While most people probably saw a broken man hiding his pain under a façade of confidence, you were finally getting to see that he was a broken man who had managed to piece himself back together and was doing his damnedest to keep all the pieces in place, leaning on his friends when the pain was too much. You could tell, he felt deeply the emotions of those around him, most especially those of Steve. When Steve was happy, Bucky was happy, and when Steve was upset, Bucky was upset for him. And, as you soon learned, his emotions often paralleled yours too. 

Hence, your sexual frustrations were beginning to affect him too. Hanging out with him in yours and his off time was nice, casual, and comfortable, but the dating aspect of this whole ‘taking it slow’ approach was beginning to feel more than a little contrived, to feel routine and not in a good way. Sure it was nice to get out of the tower to spend time together, but your limited mobility made your options limited. Maybe a week apart without your scheduled dates would do you both some good while you and he still tried to feel your way through the beginnings of this relationship.

That was really the one solid aspect of the whole thing. This was a relationship. Maybe you and he didn’t go around calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend like lovesick fools in a rom com, but that’s what you were. It was only a few days in when Bucky had said it one night on his bed in the middle of a commercial break while you and he did your best to cuddle when your right leg was stuck straight out from your hip.

_“Y/N?” He said, his breath tickling the top of your left ear, his arms clutching around your middle with more pressure than before as if to hold you in place._

_“Hmm?” You stroked your fingers up the black metal of his arm._

_“I want us to be a thing. You know, I want us to be an Us.” You could hear the emphasis and importance laced in that word._

_You turned in his embrace and looked up to meet his eyes, which were apprehensive. You smiled and shook your head before turning back to the screen, “I know that, fool. I want that too. Like Rick James, you and I are like a glove on a hand.”_

_You could hear him laugh through his nose, “Doll, you have to know that I hear you, but I also have no clue…”_

_You groaned and leaned the back of your head against his shoulder, “Come on, Bucky. That’s the song I played on Gargan’s yacht before you just fucking flew out of the sky and right at his face. You know, Rick ‘what did the five fingers say to the face’ James.” You sat up and turned around slightly, reaching up to slap him when he grabbed your wrist in his unyielding metal fingers._

_“Don’t think I haven’t heard that joke before. Steve, still not used to his new serum strength slapped me in the face right after Azzano, and if I hadn’t been so shocked by his appearance and so happy to see him, I might have thrown him out of the back of the transport truck and left him in Italy.” He looked at you with raised eyebrows._

_“Aww, c’mon that’s not what I was going to do. I was gonna do, something else,” you lied lamely, squirming your wrist out of his grip._

_He reluctantly loosened his grip, laughing softly, “If you slap me for your punchline, doll, there will be consequences.” His eyes darkened as he spoke, and you felt a jolt run through your veins._

_“Oh yeah, what kind of consequences?” You raised your brows in challenge._

_His face crumpled into one of his blindingly bright smiles, avoiding your innuendo, and said, “Just shut up and quit distracting me, the show’s back on.”_

_You leaned forward as best as you could, pecking him on the lips, “We’ll pick this conversation up when the splint comes off.”_

_You could feel him smile against your lips before he forcibly turned you back to the TV, wrapping you in an embrace you couldn’t squirm out of this time._

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice stirred you from the fond memory.

“Hmm? Sorry, lost in my thoughts,” you muttered, idly setting a pair of socks next to Bucky’s packing pile.

“I was asking if we’re okay? Because if it’s the restaurant, we can go somewhere else. We can have something besides French,” he was avoiding your eyes while rolling his shirts for packing.

You sighed and limped over to him, running your hand up his back, “It’s not the food, Bucky. I love me smelly cheese and wine; it’s just that…well, isn’t this all starting to feel a bit forced to you? Like we’re waiting for some magical deadline that’ll somehow make you and me fucking seem less rushed?”

You could hear the amused impatience in his sharp intake of breath and subsequent sigh, “I know. But there’s not a lot we can do about that right now. I’m leaving with the others in less than two hours.”

“Ugghh,” you groaned dramatically, “Okay. I know. When you get back let’s revisit this please?”

Before you knew it, you were standing the hangar while Bucky and the rest of the team were prepping and packing the quinjet.

As the engines roared to life, Bucky bounded over to you for one last goodbye. 

“Send me all the Joe Biden memes you can find while I’m gone; I’ve recently discovered those.” He said, looking at you with that foolishly happy grin you were beginning to love.

You rolled your eyes, “Can’t you just get on reddit and find them yourself?”

He shook his head, “I want you to send them to me because then it’ll give us an excuse to talk. Also, reddit is a cesspool of conservatives and men’s rights activists. They creep me out.”

Punching him lightly on the shoulder with your crutches tucked under your arms, you scoffed, “So you’d rather let me sift through the bullshit? Some gentleman you are.” 

“Never said I was a gentleman. Besides, I won’t have time to search around reddit while I’m on a mission,” he looked up through his lashes while he spoke, and you couldn’t keep up the tough act any longer.

“You know I will always send you internet shitposts,” you casually ran the backs of your knuckles up his arm, “Now go on. You’d better get on that jet before Tony leaves without you.”

“Can I get a goodbye kiss?” Bucky was still looking through his lashes, knowing that you couldn’t resist that flirty charm.

“Right here in front of everyone?” You said, looking around Bucky’s shoulder at the others milling about and doing small final preparations before leaving. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and scoffed, “Ahw, c’mon, Y/N. No one is watching, just a little peck for the road so that I don’t forget how you taste.”

“You’re only gonna be gone a week, fool,” you were still looking around self-consciously.

“Y/N…” He practically whined under his breath, stepping just a little closer, one of the fingers on his right hand gently coming to rest on your hip and drawing small circles on the hem of your shirt.

You let out a sigh, “Fine. Do it quick.”

Smiling at his small victory, Bucky leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss on your lips, which despite your disdain for PDA, still left you yearning for more. Luckily or unluckily, you couldn’t decide, Bucky took the opportunity to then wrap his arms around you, tipping you backward off your balance as he kissed you passionately. You felt equal parts desire, wanting nothing more than to rip your splint off and run back your room with him, and embarrassment, feeling exposed as he kissed you fully, tongue and, all in front of the team. 

Finally, when you heard a wolf whistle, coming from Tony most likely, you sent your fist flying into Bucky’s lower back where you estimated one of his kidneys to be.

He broke away with a slight grimace that was overpowered by his shit eating grin as Tony goaded Sam and Natasha to join in on the whoops and calls for you to get a room while Steve shook his head and smiled in amusement at their antics. They too knew about your dislike for broadcasting your budding relationship with Bucky; hence, them going out of their way to tease you about it. Bucky, on the other hand, found it hilarious as he laughed into your shoulder, burying his face there as he pulled you back into a more balanced stance.

He gave you one last peck on the nose before bounding up the steps of the quinjet before it took off, leaving you leaning on your crutches in hangar, torn between irritation and longing.

* * *

Most of the week passed peacefully, and you reveled in the emptiness of the residential floors. Even though you loved everyone on the team, it was nice to have the place to yourself. You could set the temperature on the thermostat to your liking, walk around in your underwear, play music and the TV as loudly as you liked, and fart or belch whenever you liked without worrying about an audience. Yeah, having the place to yourself felt like the first thirty minutes of _Home Alone_ , minus the impending robbery and crushing separation anxiety but with the addition of actual adulting and putting in hours with the desk agents…so not quite like the movie, but almost.

You and Bucky texted periodically, and you sent him memes you knew he would like, grateful that he had fully embraced the Internet humor you loved so well. He also filled you in on what limited information he could disclose over the phone regarding the progress of the mission. This was one of those rare missions that, while not going completely to plan, was still on schedule for them to return on time.

There were three more days left in the mission when you woke up in your bed at a leisurely hour, stretching out as best as you could with your splinted right leg. That morning you had your weekly check up with the doctors in the tower’s medical wing, just to make sure that your bone and the gunshot wound were healing up properly. You ate your quiet breakfast before riding the elevator down to your appointment.

She was one of the new doctors at the tower, and she was staring at your fresh x-rays for what seemed like an inordinately long time. She moved from the x-rays on her computer and back to your leg palpating the muscles and gently bending your knee back and forth.

“Any pain?” She asked, squaring you up under her clinical gaze.

“Uhm,” you took a moment to focus on the sensations in your leg, “Nah. It feels weird, like a little weak maybe, but it doesn’t hurt.”

She hummed to herself as she turned back to the x-rays, flipping through the different angled views.

“Lie back on the table and relax your leg muscles,” she said with an authority you didn’t question. She began bending your leg at the knee, then the hip, rotating and pushing and pulling, again asking you to stop her if there were any pain at all. There wasn’t.

She finally laid your leg back out on the table before you sat up and looked at her expectantly. She had a calm and reassuring look on her face this time.

“I think we can call your leg healed,” she smiled as she made a few notes on her computer.

“What? I thought I had to be off it for another week?” You asked, thinking because she was new that she didn’t know your recovery plan.

“Six weeks is a good rule of thumb for bone injuries,” she said, rolling her stool back in front of you, “but the bullet did most of its damage to your soft tissues, and as I’m sure your previous doctor told you, it only chip fractured your femur, severely granted, but didn’t break across the entire bone. Six weeks was a conservative estimate. I think after five, you’re ready for physical therapy and soon after that, light exercise even. This is good news, Y/N; you should be smiling.” She patted you on your good leg, picked up your splint with a wink, “Would you like to keep this or just have it burned?”

You laughed as much at her lighthearted humor as you did at the prospect of not wearing that thing ever again, “As much as I’d love to pull an _Office Space_ and pummel that thing in an abandoned field, I think we should probably just donate it to a hospital or something virtuous like that.”

You still had to use one of your crutches to support your somewhat atrophied leg, but that afternoon you had your first appointment with one of the staff physical therapists. If you had the strength, you could have danced your way back to your quarters that evening and the next two days to your physical therapy appointments.

Your leg was decidedly weak and stiff, but those two days of stretching with the physical therapist helped to bring back some of its natural limberness, which was a good thing because you were fully intending on tackling and straddling Bucky the second he was back from his mission.

When You finally got the text from Bucky telling you that they were just landing in the hangar, you felt a weird jolt of nerves run through you. Bucky was back, and that meant that this sexual McGuffin was finally about to be caught. 

You felt anxious and exhilarated as you saw Bucky walk down the ramp of the quinjet, his shocked eyes locked on your decidedly un-splinted leg, the tops of his ears going a bit pink when he finally met your gaze. You and he were thinking the same thing.

“Y/N,” he scooped you into a tight hug, not kissing you because he knew that you’d rather it wait till later, “Your leg?”

“Long story short, it’s healed. And you and I aren’t leaving my room for the next five days,” you looked at him with determination. Nothing else would stand in your way; you had waited long enough.

Bucky smiled, guilt lacing his eyes, “We’ve got to debrief with intelligence team first.”

Tipping your head back and groaning, you growled not even caring that the others were within earshot, “Fine! Go debrief, and then you and are gonna fuck till the sun goes down. You know where to find me.”

You left Bucky there, stunned, standing in the hangar on the receiving end of Sam’s teasing for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR I’m not dragging this out intentionally. I didn’t feel up to writing a sex scene with a splinted leg, so that needed to be resolved. One part left, and it WILL be smut. Look for it by Friday, maybe before then if I keep having insomnia the next few days.
> 
> Also, thank yall so much for the kudos and feed back. I LOVE ALL OF YOU!!


	8. Part 8 (Final)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say, ‘wow, can’t believe it’s actually over,’ but I WON’T because this goddamned fic was supposed to be like 2 fucking parts, pun INTENDED. I cannot believe that this turned into a 37k word albatross, but I’m done, I killed it, so here yall go. Are you happy?! (JK, I love this fic and I love all of you)
> 
> Also, one more note. I’ve linked an image below (totally safe for work, no worries) that any of you following me on Tumblr have probably already seen me laughing at like a total jackass. I just want to point out the obvious: that **the appearance of the woman in the picture is in no way meant to represent the appearance of you, the reader**. I just think it’s funny and illustrates the physical position of the reader in that scene.

Your whole body was humming with adrenaline and anticipation as you hurried through the tower and back to you room. After weeks upon weeks of dreaming and pining and talking and kissing, the big moment was finally here, finally happening, and all that anticipation now had turned into nerves and anxiety. A tense tingling had taken root in your thighs and spread up to the pit of your stomach where it fluttered and grew as your mind began to spin a little.

Bucky. Sex. Naked. No, it was intentional, so nude? Regardless. Sex with Bucky, finally. Him seeing me nude, in bed, and oh god…

You suddenly felt like that same fumbling teenager on the night before you left for college, giving your first handjob to that asshole—Kyle? Cal? Colin?—on the bench seat of his old beat up Chevy truck parked on the side an old farm road. Worry and want blending into an indecipherable tangle of feelings that left you 

But you weren’t a kid anymore; you were an adult, a freaking Avenger. And this wasn’t going to be a quickie in a truck with the varsity linebacker. And Bucky might sometimes seem like an asshole sometimes to someone who didn’t know him—that had been how you knew him for months—but fundamentally he wasn’t one; he was a good man, your good man. Bucky was your—you cringed at the word and the connotations it carried— _boyfriend_. Ughh. Partner? Lover? Well soon-to-be, anyway. None of those labels really seemed to fit. He was just Bucky, _your_ Bucky, and you were his. You could do this.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and took a few deep breaths. You wanted this. You really, really did, but you were overthinking everything as you were wont to do. Could Bucky be this nervous? Nah, no way. But had all your talking and postponing been a shot to the foot? Would all this hype and buildup make the actual moment somehow pale in comparison the mental image you had now? Would your first time with Bucky be mind-blowing or just underwhelming? What if it were bad for Bucky? You were beginning to overthink things again.

You stood up from the bed abruptly, ignoring the dizzying rush of blood from your head and the slight twinge in your leg at your sudden movements. You hurried out to the kitchen and nabbed one of Tony’s bottles of Scotch. Someday there would be a reckoning for all the hooch you’d stolen from Tony, but that day was not today. So, feeling more like a raccoon breaking into a garbage can than an Avenger, you slinked back to your room, Scotch and a tumbler in hand. There was nothing wrong with wanting to relax a little beforehand, right?

Setting the bottle and glass on your desk, you stripped for a quick neck-down shower, tugging your shower cap sloppily over your ears in your haste. You were sure you smelled like nervous sweat, and you wanted to smell like anything but that. Grateful for your newfound freedom from that teakwood shower chair, you made quick work of cleaning every crack and crevice with fastidious attention.

When you were done toweling off, you poured yourself a drink, taking a sip before picking out a random bra and pair of underwear. There seemed to be no sense in trying to match them or pretending like even one article of lingerie you owned was sexy in the least; of course, Bucky probably already had a good idea of that. Just because you two hadn’t had sex yet didn’t mean that it hadn’t gotten heated between you two on more than few occasions. You tugged on a comfy shirt and some cotton shorts, the action causing your leg to cramp again.

Your splint had only been off for two days. It was still weak and stiff from five weeks of unbending confinement. A stitch in your leg would be the perfect mood killer, and it already had cock blocked you once before. Glancing at the clock on your wall, you estimated that you probably still had a good hour before Bucky would show, so you decided to take this chance to do some of the stretches from physical therapy in the hopes that you could coax a bit more flexibility out of your joints. 

After going through some of your easier stretches, you ended your impromptu workout by getting a good stretch on your IT Band, which your therapist had emphasized as being crucial to your recovery. Lying down on your side, just happening to be facing the door, and you stuck your legs out in opposite directions, knees at right angles. Resting your head in one hand and bracing your body against the floor with your other arm in front of you, you began to gently press your knee down, stretching the tight band with equal parts pain and relief. ([X](https://www.aafp.org/afp/2005/0415/afp20050415p1545-f2.jpg))

When the door then suddenly opened and Bucky walked in, hair still wet from a shower, you and he just stared at each other for a long moment, all furrowed brows and stunned silence.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” you said flatly, looking up at him, wide eyed and cringing inside, acutely aware of your odd posture on the floor.

There was a slight crease between Bucky’s brows as he looked down at you, “Uhm, what is it supposed to look like?”

“Well, I can tell you that this is not my ‘come hither’ stance,” you gave him an awkward smile that wasn’t quite a smile, still for some reason not getting up from the floor.

He looked like he was torn between a grimace and a smile before you clarified, “I’m doing some of my stretches from physical therapy.” You finally eased yourself up from the ground as realization and amusement washed over Bucky’s face and he laughed softly.

“How does it feel?” He asked, still standing in the same spot, gesturing toward your leg.

You shrugged your shoulders, “It’s not so bad, a little stiff and weak. Hence, the stretching, just wanted to be limber for, uh, y’know, for…” You trailed off as your voice faltered as you realized how dumb and nervous you must have sounded. 

But Bucky slowly walked toward you, his hair dripping slightly at the ends, his eyes not leaving yours, until he was standing so close that his chest brushed against yours. There was no conceivable way he couldn’t feel the erratic pounding of your heart against your ribs. You looked down at your chest, half expecting to see it beating beneath your bones like in the old cartoons.

You suppressed the excited tremor than ran through your body as he brushed the fingers of his right hand gently down your forearm until they came to rest on your fingers, gently weaving with yours.

Still unable to look up at him from the nerves in your stomach and the beating in your chest, you just let your head fall to his solid frame. You couldn’t miss the faint sound of his heart keeping pace with yours.

“Doll?” He whispered into your ear, his breath tickling your neck.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to conjure intelligible words at this point so you just hummed in response, “Hmm?”

“We don’t have to do anything,” his voice cracked slightly as he continued, “I mean, this doesn’t have to be tonight. We can wait till it feels natural. I don’t want you to feel like its forced or anything.”

You pulled back slightly at the tone of his voice and finally looked back to his face, nervousness painting his features. You’d been so focused on your own desires and your own anxieties that you’d forgotten that Bucky might also be feeling some of his own. Bucky didn’t seem like the kind of guy to get nervous about sex given his history, but the timidity in his voice gave you pause. Did _he_ need to wait? Did he feel like the timing of it was an obligation?

“Do you want to wait?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You could see his eyes dilate even in the dim lighting of your room, “Only if you do.”

There was your answer. Shaking your head, you whispered, “I want this, you, now—”

You barely got your broken and clipped sentence out before Bucky’s lips crashed onto yours. It was a sensation that you were now accustomed to from weeks of tasting his lips on yours. But in that moment, it felt like that first kiss from so many weeks ago, desperate, needy, intoxicating. 

You wound your arms around the back of his neck, tangling one of your hands in his hair, tugging at the wet strands as Bucky gripped your sides with a firm but gentle pressure, slowly backing you toward your bed.

When the backs of your knees pressed up against the mattress, you untangled your arms from his neck and, turning, pushed him backwards to sit on the bed, following him down. Straddling his lap and kissing down his throat, you could feel him beginning to grow hard, and you ground down on him, wanting him to know that you felt the same, relishing in the low groan you felt rumble beneath your lips. 

When his fingers shakily grasped the lower edge of your shirt, you parted your lips from his skin only long enough to pull off your shirt as he did the same with his, both of your movements fevered and desperate, before finding each other’s embrace again, lips frantically kissing and exploring each other. 

There may have been a nervous tickle still in your stomach, but it was rapidly becoming overpowered by your overwhelming need for him, for all of him. You grasped fumblingly at the clasp of your bra on your back, throwing the garment to the side when it finally came loose, and savoring the feeling of his bare skin on yours as you kissed and nibbled along his stubbled jaw.

“Y/N,” his voice was ragged, and his hands on your face, one hot and one cold, pulled your lips back to his. “Please, let me have you, taste you,” his breath brushed over your lips, and you felt that coil deep in your gut tighten.

“Bucky,” you gasped, nodding your head as your voice failed you.

Picking you up off his lap, he knelt down on the ground in front of the bed, kissing his way up the top of one of your legs, frowning when his lips met the hem of your shorts. Wasting no time, he tugged your shorts and underwear down, and you lifted your hips so that he could pull them off completely. 

You almost seemed to forget how to think as you looked at him kneeling between your legs, his hands gently parting them more, opening you for him, brushing his lips along your inner thighs until he reached the apex. When he gently nuzzled at the sensitive flesh there, your mind lost all focus and your head fell backward with a sigh.

Bucky. Bucky whom you’d loathed. Whom you loved. The only man who could get under your skin and make you want more. Your Bucky. 

Your hand gripped at his scalp, probably a little too tightly as he savored and worshipped you. The heal of your left foot dug into his back, selfishly wanting him closer, deeper. You couldn’t control your breathing or the sounds coming from your mouth as he pushed you further and further to the edge. 

But not like this. There would be time for foreplay later. Right now, you needed him, to feel him inside you. 

“Bucky, c’mere,” your voice sounded hoarse. Gently gripping his cheeks in your hands, you pulled him back up your level, the taste of yourself on his lips tangy and intoxicating as you thanked him with your actions where your words could not.

All your previous timidity was gone as you scooted back onto the mattress, drawing him along with you before pushing his sweatpants and boxers down in one move, laughing softly with him as he awkwardly kicked them loose from his ankles. Using this momentary loss of balance, you pushed him down on the mattress, straddling his thighs. You finally let yourself have a moment to drink him in, trying to memorize every valley and peak of his muscled chest and stomach, your breathing hitching and heat pooling in your pelvis as your gaze traveled down to his erection. 

Finally tearing your eyes away, you looked back to his, which were fixated on your body. With anyone else, you might have felt insecure about all the faults that you could always so keenly see in the mirror, but not with him, adoration and raw affection apparent in his eyes as he looked back up you. 

“Bucky?” You barely whispered, your hands coming to rest just above his hips. 

He seemed to understand your unspoken request as he took your hands in his, pulling you down to him. Resting your arms above his shoulders and cupping his cheek with one hand, you kissed him deeply, trying to convey all your desire and love and need into that one action. His fingers and hands explored your exposed back, hips, breasts, frantically trying to feel all of you at once.

“Need you, Y/N,” he moaned into your lips, and you moaned right back.

“Yes, yes,” you called brokenly in consent as you stumbled off his lap, practically ripping the drawer in your bedside table off its runners as you reached for a condom. You tried to control the eager trembling in your fingers as you carefully tore open the package. Turning back to him, you could see a glint of amusement at your fumbling just beneath the smoldering desire in his eyes.

Pinching the tip, you rolled the condom down, the heat and weight of him in your hands making the moisture and desire pooling between your legs to intensify.

His hands on your hips coaxed you to straddle him as he lined himself up, stroking his tip between your lips. When you slowly sank down, his length filling you perfectly, you swore you could see star in his eyes as he swallowed your moans down with his lips. Gripping his shoulders, you pulled him upright with you, your skin on his as you both began to move together. 

The feeling of him inside you was more perfect that you could have imagined as he looked into your eyes, kissed along your shoulders, gripped at your hips, moaned into the valley of your breasts. Whereas your vision had felt dreamy and pre-ordained, this, him fucking you, felt real, like it was meant to be but not because you’d seen it. It was meant to be because you and Bucky joined together felt like your world entire in that moment and you were his. His pleasure mixing with yours made you never want to draw this moment out forever.

But it couldn’t last forever. And as you felt that tingling at the base of your spine as heat spread across your skin, making it sticky with sweat, you knew it wouldn’t be long. 

Bucky must have felt the same thing as his absolutely broken and ragged voice panted across your lips, “Y/N are you close, can’t last much longer.”

“I’m so close, so fucking close,” you moaned. Licking the tips of your index and middle finger, you reached down and massaged at your clit. Between Bucky’s ministrations and yours, you soon felt your muscles contract and release as wave after wave pleasure made your vision hazy and your breathing stutter. Between your response and that he had already been so close, Bucky soon followed over the edge as he clung to your body with both arms.

You wanted to stay there, feel him soften in you, but you pulled off him, wincing at the loss, and let him tie off the condom before putting it in the trash next to your desk. You lay back on the bed and watched him walk back to the bed, watched him crawl up the mattress and over your body before he collapsed on you, pressing his lips gently to yours. His hand gripped at your neck as his lips glided against yours.

And when he finally parted and looked at you, all you could do was smile a dreamy smile. He lay back down on the bed, taking you with him and into his arms.

“God, Bucky, that was…everything,” it felt silly to say such a thing, but what else could you say? Looking up at his face you could see his face crinkle into a wide smile.

“Well, don’t give too much credit to god, doll. I think I was the one behind the wheel,” he laughed.

“Shut up, Bucky!” You groaned, drawing out each syllable and punching at his chest, hurting your fist more than him, “I’m trying to be romantic and you’re ruining it.”

He smiled once more before his eyes softened and a hint of his previous shyness crept back onto his face, “Everything,” he echoed your words, and you could hear the rush of emotion in his voice, unspoken depths contained in that one word.

Feeling a different kind of warmth spread across your skin, you gazed up at him affectionately, carefully tracing the outlines of his features with your gaze, gratefully unbelieving of your current position next to Bucky in bed and apparently in his heart.

From Bucky’s part, it felt like something had finally clicked for him. There had been so many broken pieces of him that he’d had to collect and keep track of since Steve had pulled him out of himself in D.C. all those years ago and made him remember that he was more than a muzzled killer. Then Shuri had replaced his broken arm, an arm that had been made for only death and violence known nothing else, with a new one that would only be used for good. 

And now he had you. It wasn’t that he was incomplete without you, but you helped him remember that part of himself that had almost died in the 40s, the man he was before the horror of the war had irreversibly stolen the youthful bounce in his step and before Hydra had stolen everything else. 

He looked at you looking at him, and he wanted to get lost in your gaze, which was steadfastly fixed on him. A little too steadfast, too fixed, glazed even. He watched your eyelids twitch ever so slightly until you blinked back to the present reality.

“Vision?” He asked softly.

You groaned and rubbed at your eyes. Perfect fucking timing. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

Bucky fixed you with a look that reminded you more of Steve than himself, “Are you sure? We can’t sacrifice valuable planning and intel gathering just for the sake of cuddling in bed.”

“Argh, we absolutely can,” you reassured him. “Just a bunch of rich white kids getting blasted at a kegger and accidentally setting the house on fire with a pizza box on the stove. We just need to alert the San Antonio fire department to be standing by outside their neighborhood. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

He was still giving you that look.

“Fine. Friday?” You called to the ceiling.

“Yes, Y/N.” 

“Set a reminder for me to talk with Tony about the vision in the morning, make it at 9:00.”

“Of course.” Her disembodied voice filtered away.

Looking back to Bucky, you gave him a slight sneer, “There. Happy? Like I said, it can wait.”

Bucky’s face softened into a smile as leaned in to kiss you, the fingers of his left hand drawing small circles on your stomach.

“So,” he hummed above your lips, “I know you’re used to running on little sleep…”

He let the suggestion hang in the air, and you raised one brow at him in response, “Yeah? You too.”

“I’d say let’s go watch some TV and drink on the couch, y’know for old time’s sake, but what do you think about using our insomnia to get creative?” He wagged his brows slightly.

You groaned at how cheesy he was being, “You are such a fucking dork.”

He grinned back, moving atop you and penning you in on both sides with his arms, “You’re the one who said we wouldn’t be leaving your room for three days.”

“You’re the one making me go to a meeting with Tony in the morning,” you huffed as he began to lick and nibble his way across your chest.

“Then make it a phone meeting,” he said, looking down at you, his eyes darkening. “Because I intend to take you up on that offer.” 

And he pressed his lips to yours before you could even begin to think of a response. For once, you were fine with him not letting you get the last word in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JEESUS. It is OVER. And I hope yall liked it because I’ve spent like 4 days changing words and shit in that smutty bits, like a pedantic jerk. To every single one of you who’s commented, given kudos, read, ALL OF YOU: Thank you so much for making this story feel worth it. For real, thank yall so, so much!!
> 
> Special thanks to Marshmalloween, elle150, Fall_goddess, tofu_u, Jeanieeelopez, Rg, KitCatWolfMCSW, AntiSocial_SocialGatherings, Ann-Marie Sloan, Niramisa for yall's comments. I've read all your kinds words, and they really meant the world to me!! All the love!


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